


Cat's Cradle

by Dragonwithatale, rw_eaden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Blood and Injury, Cat Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Whump, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Enemies to Lovers, Familiar Dean Winchester, Familiars, First Kiss, Frottage, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, Platonic Destiel, Witch Castiel, Witch Sam Winchester, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-08 19:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14700525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonwithatale/pseuds/Dragonwithatale, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rw_eaden/pseuds/rw_eaden
Summary: Sam Winchester isn't your typical witch. Practicing a taboo form of magic is bad enough, but it's another thing entirely to have his brother for a familiar. He's always been aware that there are those who would like to ruin both him and his brother by separating the two, either because they feel it's unnatural for witches and their familiars to be related or because they want to steal Dean's magic for their own. So when Castiel Novak shows up claiming Dean's his familiar... well Sam's not willing to go down without a fight.Castiel Novak is a loner. It's mostly by choice, but really, what choice do you have when you can see the threads that orchestrate relationships? He knows he can't get too close to people, because in his experience they always leave when the people they're destined to love show up. So imagine his luck when he finds both his familiar and the man he's destined to have a relationship within the same week! It's really just too bad he and Sam can't seem to get along for five minutes. The threads have never been wrong before but damn would it make it easier if they could just hate each other instead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the 2018 Sastiel Big Bang! I was really excited to get the chance to work with my good friend, trisscar (dragonwithatale) for this one. Her art is fucking fantastic and I'm so in love with it. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank Tori for helping me with this fic. This one really kicked my ass and I needed a lot of talking down in order to finally make it work and Tori has been invaluable in that. She's a badass. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic! I love enemies to lovers and there just isn't enough of it in sastiel so I wrote my own. If you did like it, please leave a like and/or comment! It keeps us writers going and makes up very happy! :)

 

Sam tucks himself into his computer nook, steaming cup of coffee cradled in his hands. He has more work to do than he cared to admit, but he just didn’t have it in him to actually do it. It’s cold in the house and storming outside, and the prospect of digging through ancient tomes and translating spells and rituals was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d much rather work on his own spells, though that too seemed a little lackluster. He’d much rather read a book, given the weather. He’d curl up on the couch, book in hand and blanket over his feet, Dean curled up in his lap and just read until he fell asleep right there. That would be nice. Speaking of Dean…

Sam sets his coffee down and set about the house looking for his brother. A six-foot human isn’t usually so easy to lose, especially in the small house that they had, but when he was a cat that was a whole different story. He’d once gotten Dean stuck in the cupboard under his alter for six hours after a ritual, which usually wouldn’t be an issue, but the space was too small for him to shift back and free himself. He still hasn’t heard the end of that one.

A quick sweep of all Dean’s favorite hiding spots provide fruitless, so Sam checks less conventional areas. He isn’t in the shower, or any of the cabinets of closets, and his keys were still on the hook by the door. He could call out, but Dean hated that. He’s said it made him feel like a pet, which, yeah, Sam got that. It doesn’t change the fact that he kept a scratching post and a cat dish out. Dean says it’s to keep up appearances, but they both know barely anyone came over these days. Not since Bobby died, at least. Sam doesn’t mind though. Dean could have his water bowl and his scratching post, as long as he ate and used the bathroom like a regular person.

Sam wanders back into their shared bedroom and spots a note sitting on Dean’s side of the bed, his blocky writing written on the paper.

_Sammy, be back soon. Gotta take care of something important. - Dean_

What could be so important that he had to leave without telling Sam he was leaving is beyond him, but Dean was odd. Sometimes he gets the urge to run around in the city and sometimes he just really wanted pie. Whatever it was, it probably wasn’t that big of a deal so Sam isn’t going to worry about it. If it was life-altering, surely he’d tell Sam. They were witch and familiar, after all; they were supposed to share everything. Still, it is wet and cold outside, so Sam sent Dean warm and safe thoughts through their bond and nestled back down into his computer nook. Dean responds with warm and cheerful messages of his own, making Sam smile. Whatever he’s doing, he’s happy, and that’s good enough for Sam.

\----

Dean was just a baby the first time he shifted. He doesn’t remember it at all, but his baby book was filled with pictures of him as both a chubby blonde baby and a little orange kitten whose ears were too big for his head.  He doesn’t remember it, but according to his mother the first time he shifted he was six months old and scared the shit out of her and his father. He’d disappeared from his bassinet and wound up sleeping on his mom’s pillow instead. He always would have liked to remember that one, though.

He does, however, remember meeting his witch for the first time. He was only four at the time, but he’d been ecstatic to have a baby brother. He’d always wanted to be a big brother, to have someone to play with and teach things, like how to color in the lines of coloring books and push mashed potatoes around enough on his plate that his mom thought he’d eaten some. But the second he’d seen baby Sammy, all wrapped up in blankets and resting on his mom’s chest he knew that there was something more important he had to do than be a big brother. It was a feeling deep inside him, something tugging at the very core of him and filling him with warmth and excitement. Something that set his whole body abuzz with that tingly feeling you get when your foot falls asleep, except pleasant. He’d giggled the first time he’d seen Sam, and he could still remember the words that came out of his mouth.

_“Hi, Sammy. My name is Dean and I’m your familiar.”_

His mother’s eyes got a lot wider after that, and his father was pretty quick to pull him out of the room, despite how much he cried. He didn’t know it at the time, but he might as well have admitted to setting fire to an orphanage in his father’s eyes. His mother, may the Gods bless her, had tried to be more understanding. She was a familiar. She knew that the bonds between a witch and familiar didn’t have to be sexual or romantic. She knew plenty of familiars were just close to their witches and had their own families and even their own children. She’d just never heard of a witch being related to their familiar before. His father, though, he didn’t get it. Dean was only four at the time, he couldn’t possibly _know_. It didn't matter that Dean was a familiar and familiars are born to know who their witches are. It didn’t matter that Sam’s early magic was stronger than anyone his age. All that mattered was that John knew the relationship he’d had with his familiar, and he didn’t want that for his boys.

It didn’t matter what he’d actually wanted, though. John and Mary split up and Dean and Sam went off to college. It was sometime after that that Dean and Sam actually did cross the line and fell into bed with each other. It wasn’t just for the magical boost sex gives, either, it was something special. Dean himself wasn’t really the falling in love type, but what he felt for Sam was about as close as he’d ever thought he’d get.

Now, though, Dean was wandering the streets of Salem as a fuzzy orange tabby. He was on the hunt for something, though what he didn’t actually know. Occasionally, he would get urges to find things, almost all of them magical. The crystal Sam used to carve into a crystal ball was found on one such excursion, so whatever it was he needed to find it had to be important.

He winds up in a residential area, climbing up the fire escape of an apartment building. As he gets closer, the pull inside him grows stronger, tugging until he’s on the windowsill of a third floor apartment. He meows, pawing at the window. It’s in there. Whatever he needs is in there and he needs to get to it right now. If he were human he would’ve been pounding on the window like a maniac, but as a cat, he just keeps pawing at the glass. That’s probably much cuter, anyway.

There is some movement from inside the room and Dean meows louder now. A man comes into view from the kitchen, in nothing but an open button down and boxers. He frowns, stopping at the window and pulling it open.

“Hey, kitty,” he says, holding out his hand for Dean to sniff. Dean goes straight for headbutting it, marking the strange man with his scent. “What are you doing out in the rain?” The man’s voice is deep and rich and reminiscent Dean of dark chocolate and wine. Dean purs.

“You want to come inside?” He asks.

Yes. Dean absolutely does want to come inside. He hops down onto the hardwood floor, weaving back and forth in between the stranger’s legs. The man chuckles, light and airy. Dean really likes the way it sounds. Maybe he can find a way to make this man do it over and over again. His fur feels great, like rolling in a warm meadow after binging on catnip. It’s a pleasant sort of magic that he wants to swim in, making his head and heart strum with joy and contentment. He can feel it, sinking into his bones and his very core from the air, the boards under his feet, the very spirit of the universe.

“You’re very friendly,” the stranger says, “where’s your family?”

“Sam’s still at home,” Dean tries to say, but comes out as a soft, high pitched _mrow._

“Are you hungry?” The stranger asks, shutting the window. “I think I have some tuna around here somewhere.”

As the man turns his back to walk into the kitchenette, Dean feels it. The pull under his ribs, the sudden and sharp tingles in his entire body. He doesn't even realize that he was shifting until he’s standing on two feet and no longer looking up at the coffee table.

“Castiel,” Dean speaks, his mind and body running on the pure burst of magic flowing through him. His whole body warm and relaxed in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

The stranger, Castiel, apparently, spins on his heels to stare at Dean. “How did you - “

“Castiel,” Dean says again, “my name is Dean and I’m your familiar.”


	2. Chapter 2

Mildred Baker runs Merry Meet,  an apothecary downtown, wedged in between a shoe store and a recently vacated clothing boutique. For all intents and purposes, it’s a normal shop that sells teas and candles and brass statues of Egyptian gods made in India. It caters to all kinds of clientele, from New Age hipsters who wax their beards to witches and familiars like Sam and Dean. Mildred herself isn’t a witch, but she knows enough about magic to give good advice. As far as Sam is aware she’s completely human, though Dean suspects she might have some magic in her bloodline.

The first thing that strikes Sam when he walks into Merry Meet is the always smell. It smells pleasant, though the herb combination isn’t one Sam can pinpoint. He’s sure it’s flowers and probably sage, but he can’t ever say for certain. Today though, it’s very clearly copal. Sam would be able to pick out that smokey-caramel scent anywhere, and it immediately makes him long for that book and blanket back home even more. He rushes towards the back wall, loading the glass herb jars into his arms. He’s reaching for the catnip when his hand brushes someone else’s. He pulls back instantly, an apology half out of his mouth when the other person, a man by the voice, apologizes first.

“Sorry about that,” he says, a soft smile on his lips. The first thing Sam notices are his eyes. They’re damn near ethereal; a shimmering blue like the surface of a cool lake on a hot summer afternoon. They’re focused entirely on Sam, crinkling just slightly with the barest hint of a squint.

“No need,” Sam says, gesturing to the jar, “you can have it.”

There’s no mistaking the way this man’s eyes sweep up and down Sam’s frame, slow and not even bothering to be coy. “No, it’s alright. I’m going to need a lot of it so you might want to get what you need before I clean out their stores,” he says, brushing a thick lock of dark hair away from his forehead.

“Oh. Okay then,” Sam says. He doesn’t move to grab the jar, though. He’s too caught off guard. There’s something… odd about this guy. He’s obviously a witch; it’s just the vibe he gives off, but there’s something about him that Sam can’t quite place. He looks more like a pot smoking hipster, though, with the very loose and open henley and track pants that are simultaneously too baggy and too tight, especially around his thighs. But there’s this… well, not aura (because Sam can read those and there’s nothing but contentment pulsing off him in soft blue waves) that seems comfortable and familiar somehow. It’s unsettling but not entirely unwelcome.

“Are you gonna…” The man asks, breaking Sam from his stupor.  

“Oh, right, sorry,” Sam says, grabbing the jar and tucking it under his arm.

“You know, we’re both headed for the counter. I could carry one of those for you,” the stranger says.

“Nah, I think I’m good. I just needed this stuff,” he jerks his shoulders, “but thanks for the offer, uh,”

“Castiel,” the stranger says.

“Castiel. I’m Sam. I’d offer to shake your hand but…”

Castiel chuckles. “I understand. But it’s nice to make your acquaintance, Sam.”

“Likewise,” Sam says. He should probably say something else now that they’ve exchanged names. That’s usually a little too familiar for regular people you bump into while shopping. But what the hell do you say to keep a conversation going?  

“So, uh… you come here often?” If Sam had a free hand he’d slap himself.

Castiel chuckles. “You use that line often? No, actually. I just moved into town about a month ago. I figured I should probably restock on the things I left behind and I recently came into the need for a lot more catnip.”

“Oh? Got yourself a pet?”

“A familiar,” Castiel says.

“Ah! Mine’s a cat, too. He pretends he doesn’t like the catnip but he does.”

Castie’s smile is infectious, and Sam finds himself smiling along with him. Castiel sets his jars down on the counter behind before offering to take several from Sam and line those up behind his own. “Congratulations. How long has he been with you?”

“Oh, a while,” Sam says, shrugging in what he hopes is a casual enough way, “since I was young.”

“You must practice a bit of unstable magic then,” Castiel says, “my cousin found hers at seven. She’s a very apt techno-mage.”

“Yeah, I suppose you could say that,” Sam says, “it’s not exactly common.”

Castiel smiles up at him, a dark little glimmer in his eyes. “Oh, so you’re going to make me guess are you? What is it? Weather magic? Astrological magic?”

Sam takes a half-step back. Castiel might be a lot shorter than he is, but he has a presence that seems to loom over Sam in a way he’s never really experienced before. “No, none of that,” Sam says. “It’s not exactly something I share with everyone.”

Mildred smiles at Sam briefly, interrupting the the gentle way she only seems to be able to do. She asks Castiel about the weight of the herbs he wants and gives Sam a wink as she sets out to weigh his purchases. Lots of flowers by the looks of it.

“Well aren’t you mysterious,” Castiel says. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?”

Sam snorts at that and pretends he doesn’t hear the way Mildred chuckles off to the side. “I don’t think that’s entirely necessary.”

“You’re right,” Castiel says, “but I’m still determined to get it out of you one of these days. That is, if you’re willing to meet up again. Like I said, I’m new around here and knowing not only another witch but a friendly one at that is only a bonus.”

“Uh, sure. Yeah, we can meet up if you want. Lemme just -”

Sam doesn’t have a chance to finish before Castiel is pulling a business card out of his jeans and presenting it to Sam between two fingers.

“You seriously carry business cards around with you?” Sam asks.

Castiel shrugs. “I have to make a living somehow don’t I?” He slips it into Sam’s shirt pocket and before Sam can react, he turns his attention back to Mildred. “I think this is all I need. I have a credit card.”

Mildred glances between the two of them, but rings Castiel up anyway. If Sam knows her - and he does - she’s probably trying to find a way to keep the two of them talking, but Castiel is swift with payment and before either of them know it, he’s out the door with his bag under his arm.

“Don’t say anything,” Sam warns as Mildred’s eyes light up. She always seems to get a special kind of pleasure out of trying to set Sam up with any she possibly can. Perhaps she thinks it will give her more of an opportunity to flirt with Dean when they both come in.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Mildred says, “though if I were younger myself…”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Like that matters.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t. But If I were you I’d go for it,” she says.

Sam shakes his head. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good, or I will,” she wrinkles her nose at him as she bags is Orris root.

\-----

It’s late when Dean finally gets home. He feels terrible about it, but he’s made sure to send positive and encouraging vibes to Sam all day. Sam had responded in kind until about an hour or two before Dean finally decided it was time to leave Cas and get back to his own place. Thankfully, Cas understood. Dean wasn’t totally sure how or why, but he could ask about that later. Most witches wanted to monopolize all their familiars time, especially when they first connected. Sam hadn’t been like that, obviously, because he was still a baby, but plenty of other witches Dean had met got much more upset when their familiars left, even to go to work, during the first week of their meeting. Cas didn’t seem that bothered by it, really, and for that Dean was grateful.

Dean slips in through the cat door, padding his way back to the bedroom. Shifting back is too much effort. That, and if he was in human form Sam would want to have a conversation and he just isn’t in the mood. Eventually, they would have to discuss the fact that Dean was now the familiar to two witches but tonight isn’t the night for that. Sam will be irritated, that much is almost a given. It isn’t like Dean had chosen it, though, and Sam is going to have to understand that. It just happened.

Sam mumbles something that sounds like Dean’s name as Dean sits down on his stomach. Dean just lays down and nuzzles into the soft fabric of Sam’s sleep shirt.

 _I’m home now._ Dean says over their telepathic bond.

 _You didn’t call me, jerk._ Sam responds.

_Sorry. I was busy._

_Chasing dogs again? Or did you find something good?_

_I found something. We can talk about it in the morning._

_Oh, so it’s serious?_

_Sleep, Sammy. We’ll talk in the morning._

Sam frowns and huffs in his half-sleep state, but Dean starts purring and it soothes him. Sam’s quiet for the rest of the night.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gentle reminder that this fic is "enemies to lovers" no matter how cute the meet-cute was. 
> 
> So like, buckle up, buttercups.

Castiel sits alone in his apartment, watching the sunrise. He hasn’t slept since Dean showed up, but it doesn’t bother him at all. He’s heard that being introduced to one’s familiar will cause a surge of energy to even the most balanced witch, and Castiel is anything but balanced. He’s pretty sure he’ll be up for a few days straight and then he’ll crash for a day or two. That’s alright, though. He works from home so there’s no reason he can’t sleep until noon for a week straight if he wants to. 

The floor of his apartment is awash with the pink hues of morning as he takes a look at the threads wrapped around his ring finger for the first time in a very long time. When he was a young man first growing into his power he’d been obsessed with them. Most people, witch or no, would never be able to see them, and in a way, he’d cherished this secret knowledge that he held. Other times it frustrated him to no end. He’d always been able to see them, on himself and on others; these ties that bind him to someone else. Around the ring finger on his left hand are two threads: a purple and a pink, one for the bond between a witch and familiar, the other for deep compassion. He’d thought for a long time that the two would connect him to the same person, but then he met Dean and caught sight of the red thread on Dean’s finger and the way it trailed behind him and out the window. It was disheartening, to say the least. 

Castiel’s powers had first manifested when he was seven. Before then he’d always been known as a charmer, someone who made friends easily and adults adored. His mother had chalked it up to him being such a well-behaved child, but the reality of it was that even as a small kid he was a bit rebellious. He’d often push the boundaries, with his teachers, with his parents, with anyone he could, just to see how much he could get away with. He wasn’t aware that he’d been manipulating them, that he could even influence people in that way, but he was. He still feels guilty about that. 

Love magic was what it was. He could attract crowds of adoring fans if he wanted. He could be a cult-leader, a god if he really applied himself to it. But that isn’t who he is. Aside from a few brief stints as a child where he used his natural charisma to get his parents to allow him to stay out later or a teacher to let him turn in assignments late, he didn’t push it. Love magic is a bit of a taboo as it is. The ethical implications of forcing anyone to fall in love, whether it be with himself or others, isn’t something he liked to wade too far into. That’s why he focuses mostly on glamour magic; easy things like bath mixes and face washes that heightened the natural beauty of the user. Granted, there are still some instances he can’t help but get involved in. He’s nothing if not a sucker for soulmates, so seeing that red thread around anyone’s finger is a surefire way to set him on a mission to make sure the two meet. And, if he needs to give the two a little magical nudge in the right direction… well… that’s what love magic is for right? 

Perhaps he’ll have to find his familiar’s soulmate. Now, that could be an interesting mission. He’s not the jealous type - he refuses to let himself be - but sharing his familiar isn’t something he’s too keen on doing. Still. Dean has that red thread around his finger. He’s got a soulmate out there somewhere. That’s something special, and no matter how much Castiel would hope that he would have his familiar all to himself he knows that’s not realistic. Even familiars have lives and families and jobs. They don’t owe anyone, not even their witches, all the time they have. 

Still. He remembers the sting he felt the first time he saw a red thread on a girlfriend’s finger. He knew he’d never get to keep her, no matter how much he longed to, and though he never told her - it broke his heart. At least he knew now. He wouldn’t dare to tread into that kind of territory with Dean, not knowing that he’s got a soulmate somewhere else. He’d make it a mission to find his familiar’s other half, and their relationship would be strictly between two magical practitioners. Their bond might never be as strong as it could be and their magic might never be as powerful as it could be, but they’d manage. Besides, Castiel still had his own mystery person to wonder about. Pink threads were much more common than soulmate threads, but they were still elusive to most people. Those bonds were fated, yes, but they were forged through a love that was chosen. How they could be both fated and chosen, Castiel wasn’t sure, but he supposed it wasn’t really for him to question the intricate workings of the universe. 

Castiel rises from his chair and peters into the kitchen area, rinsing out his teacup. He’s got several things he needs to do today, and most of them require getting dressed. First thing’s first though, he needs to make an appearance at the Witch’s Council. 

\---

“So,” Dean says, pushing his eggs around on the plate, “what did you do yesterday?” 

Sam is only half paying attention, shoveling bacon and hash browns into his mouth while he scrolls through the news on his tablet. He shrugs, “bought some stuff. Cleaned out the fridge. The usual. What about you?” 

Dean takes a deep breath, bracing for impact. “I found something.” 

Sam stills, lifting his eyes up from the tiny screen in front of him. “Yeah? How big?” 

“Pretty big.” 

“Are we gonna need to call Max?” 

“No. No, not anything like that. I found a witch.” 

“Oh. Someone we need to take care of?” 

Dean snorts. “Take care of? What are we Sammy, vigilantes?” 

“You said you found a witch and left it at that. You were gone all day. What am I supposed to think?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “He’s not someone we need to worry about. Actually, I think he might be someone we could ally with. You’d love him, Sammy, he’s a huge nerd. Has a whole collection of Sumerian spell books and he’s been translating shit in ancient Greek for fun.” 

Sam bobs his head, “What’s his name?” 

“Castiel Novak,” Dean says, “he lives a few blocks away. Just moved to town.” 

“Castiel? About your height, dark, messy hair and looks like he grew up in a commune?” 

“That’s him! How’d you -” 

“I met him, too. At Mildred’s yesterday.” 

Dean smiles and leans back in his chair a little. “So what did you think?” 

“He’s a little odd but he seems like a good guy. Well, as far as a first impressions go.” 

“Awesome!” Dean says, “okay, so that makes this a lot easier.” 

Sam frowns, his brown pinched in a tight crease. “Makes what easier?” 

Dean takes a deep breath before setting his palms flat on the table in front of him. “I’m Cas’s familiar.” 

Sam sets his fork down on his plate, sitting up as straight as he can. His face doesn’t betray what he’s thinking, which is pretty damn impressive considering how often he’s throwing different disapproving looks in Dean’s direction. “You’re what?” 

“I’m Cas’s familiar,” Dean says again. “I know what you’re gonna say but I’m not not your familiar anymore. I just have two witches now, I guess.” 

“Why would you think you’re his?” Sam asks, folding his hands in front of him. He’s frowning now. 

“Because I am?” 

Sam exhales, running his hands through his hair. He turns his face toward the kitchen. Soft sounds from the television float in from the other room. “Dean, you know that’s not possible right?” 

Dean’s stomach flips. “No. Obviously, it is. It happened to me so it’s not impossible.” 

Sam purses his lips, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “Maybe he hexed you?” He’s looking at Dean now, his fingers steepled in front of him. 

“Right, Sam, how’s he supposed to do that when he didn’t even know who I was before I introduced myself?” 

“Ever hear of scrying?” Sam bites back. “It’s not exactly hard to find someone you’ve never met before.”

“What are you implying?” 

“He tricked you,” Sam says. 

Dean snorts and digs his fingernails into the wooden table. If he had his claws out right now he’d rip it to ribbons. “Not possible.” 

“Dean, you already have a witch. Me. You don’t need another one.” 

“Maybe I don’t but I have one.” 

Sam sighs, setting his elbows on the table. “Alright. I’m not going to get through to you, I get that. Whatever he did must be strong.” Dean opens his mouth to interject, but Sam continues speaking. “What we’re gonna do is visit the Council. They’ll figure out what he hit you with and then they’ll take action against him. No big deal.” 

“What are you gonna do when they tell you he didn’t?” 

“What?” 

“What are you gonna do when you’re wrong.”  

“Not gonna happen.” 

Dean snorts. “It’s going to.” 

Sam stands up abruptly, scraping the chair across the floor as he does. “I can’t talk to you right now. We’ll call the Council and see when they can take care of this. Until then, I don’t want you going out on your own.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine. If it makes you feel better. But if the Council can’t get to it a day or two I need to go back.” 

Sam’s eyes flutter shut as he takes a deep breath. “I’ll tell them it’s an emergency.” 

Sam stalks off to the altar room and leaves Dean with his empty dishes and Dean’s own, half poked at meal. Great. Dean does the dishes in silence and curls up on the couch, flipping through the channels until he finds something to catch his interest. This time it’s Maury. 

Dean knows he should have expected this, but a part of him had hoped that when everything was out in the open Sam would be a little more open to the whole thing, especially after Sam said he’d already met Cas. If he was being objective about it, he knew Sam had a reason to be upset. If Sam had barged in telling him he’d found a brand new familiar, he’d be pissed, too. Hell, he’d probably wind up doing a lot of yelling and much more melodrama. But this was Sam and he always had been more internal with his anger. Sure, he had a right to be upset, but what really stung was that Sam hadn’t even believed it. 

In thirty-four years of life, there were only three things Dean Winchester knew for sure: Ellen’s bacon cheeseburgers were a gift from the gods, Burt and Ernie were gay, and his familiar instincts were always right. Okay, so the first two might just be his own opinions, but the last one was a certifiable fact. Literally. The Witch’s Council had affirmed that Dean was Sam’s familiar when he was seven years old. When Dean sensed other magic users in his presence, there were magic users. When bad weather was headed their way, there was always a storm. Every sensible magic user in the world knows that the instincts of a familiar were not to be questioned and no amount of spell work or trickery was going to change that. It just is.

Dean isn’t even going to entertain the thought that he might not be both Sam and Cas’s familiar. It isn’t possible. He’d never been wrong about something like this and he wasn’t about to be this time. No amount of grumbling or sulking on Sam’s part was going to change that. 

\----

Sometime during the day, Dean falls asleep. Sam lets him snooze, partly because he doesn’t want to wake him and deal with whatever he has to say about the Castiel issue, and partly because he knows he probably needs it. If this witch, this Castiel, has pulled Dean in through some kind of magic he’s probably been using him and that’s always draining. The gods only knew what kind of magic he’s been made to assist in. Just thinking about it makes Sam want to punch the bastard. 

A slight rapping against the window draws Sam’s attention away from his thoughts, and he makes his way to the balcony. There, sitting on the sill is a small golden pheasant, an envelope in his beak. 

Sam throws open the window, and the small bird hops in, setting the letter down in front of him. The bird straightens up, the black-striped collar of feathers around his neck puffing out. Sam chuckles. 

“Good to see you again, Jack,” he says, stroking the feathers along Jack’s head. He squawks, a little too loud and a little too sharp, and Dean bolts upright on the couch. It takes him a moment to blink away the sleep but when he does his eyes land on the bird now inside the window. 

“Can’t you just say hello like a normal person,” Dean grumbles, wiping the sleep from his eyes. 

Jack makes another light chirp and hopes down onto the floor. In an instant, he’s standing upright. “Sorry, Rowena said it was urgent. I’m not supposed to leave without you.” 

“And she still sent a letter,” Sam says, ripping open the wax seal. 

“It’s a formality. I guess,” Jack says. 

Sam pulls the letter out, holding the paper far too close to his face in an attempt to make out Rowena’s scratchy flourishes. It reads as follows: 

_ Sam Winchester,  _

_ The Witch’s Council of Salem requests your presence and that of your familiar, Dean, at three o’clock sharp on this day, the 22nd of March. You are to bring nothing but yourselves and your grimoires. No hex bags or charms of any kind will be permitted past the doors of MacLeod Manor. If you do not comply, the Council will be forced to arbitrate the matter on our own and take action as we see fit.  _

__ Rowena MacLeod, Supreme High Witch of Salem’s Grand Council, Mistress of the Grand Coven of the Eastern Seaboard, Queen Mother of Damnation _ _

 

Sam rolls his eyes. “So I take it they got my message. At least they’re moving their butts on this one, right?” 

Jack frowns. “I’m just the messenger. But we should probably leave now. It’s almost two thirty and I’m pretty sure they mean it. Rowena seemed pretty serious when she sent me out.” 

Dean grumbles and pulls himself off the couch while Sam digs his shoes out from under the coffee table. They’re all back in the car without much argument, no one really willing to speculate on what’s about to happen. 

The Witch’s Council of Salem, Massachusetts, is one of the most efficient that Sam’s ever been a part of. He didn’t even have to seek them out when he and Dean moved here about four years prior, they called for him. He supposes it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise, but after living in smaller communities outside of big cities, save for the time he went to college in California, he’s always had to seek out the council first. He supposes it’s got something to do with the reputation the town has. 

MacLeod Manor sits in the upper west end of Salem, on much more land than a single witch really has any right to. Rowena MacLeod, however, is not just any witch. She’s much younger than most of the Council members, having only been born in the 17th century, but she’s about as powerful as they come. She has a reputation for being as dangerous as she is beautiful, especially when crossed. The destruction of the Grand Coven of Cork was credited to her, as they tried to chain her power back in the 18th century. Her son happens to be King of the lower realms, those in which the darkest creatures spawn. Humans call it Hell, Sam calls it a headache. Thankfully, wherever Rowena is, the demons and spirits tend not to be. Some say it’s out of respect, but Sam thinks it’s fear. She is one person it’s best not to anger. 

The Manor itself is just as posh and pristine as any other multi-million dollar home in the East Coast. The gold and ivory that decorate the pillars and make up the scroll work near the roof are real gold and ivory, and Sam has always suspected the Greecian sculptures in the courtyard might be the real thing. Her gardens are all well maintained and expensive breeds of roses Sam wouldn’t even want to guess at, and the air always smells of sweet violets and cinnamon. 

The inside is just as expansive and ornate as the inside, though Rowena’s vanity is a little more apparent here. An oil painting of herself hangs in the foyer, and the carpeting - where there is carpeting and not dark wood - is royal purple. It smells like violets inside, too but there’s an underlying tang of electricity in the air. It’s like the smell of the wind before the kind of storm that shakes the earth and bends foundations. 

Jack leads Sam and Dean down the hall and into one of the many rooms Rowena has set aside for meetings. This one is probably a dining room if the long table and fireplace behind it are anything to go by. The room is mostly dark, the curtains drawn and the lights dimmed low. Rowena sits at the head of the table, brandy in her hand. To her right sits Patrick, a much older though much more even-tempered witch. To her left, Victor, who Sam had only seen a time or two before. At the other end of the table, Castiel sits with his head hung low, fingers drawing circles on the polished wood. 

“Hello, boys,” Rowena says, gesturing to the table. 

Sam plops down right next to Castiel, on the right, and nudges Dean to take the seat next to him. He sets his arms down on the table, creating a barrier between his familiar and the thieving witch. “Afternoon,” Sam says. 

Rowena’s gaze always makes Sam a little uncomfortable. There’s just something about the way her eyes settle over him, not quite like a predator, but more like an astute scholar, skimming through his secrets to find whatever she’s looking for. 

Jack shifts back into bird form and flies past, landing to perch on her shoulder. She strokes his beak as she speaks. “I assume you have some idea why we’ve called you here today.” 

Sam nods, clenching his fists. He can’t help but sneak a glance at Castiel, who is impassive, if not a little bored looking. Sam’s not sure whether he should get some kind of sick joy out of knowing that Castiel is in for a world of pain or whether he should be pissed at Castiel’s audacity to barely care about the trouble he’d caused. 

“Earlier this morning, Mr. Novak here attempted to register his familiar with us. He seems to be under the impression that Dean here belongs to him,” Patrick said. 

A silence hung over the room like oil over water. The council members were waiting, but for what Sam wasn’t sure. 

“So what happens now?” Castiel finally spoke. 

“Dean,” Victor spoke this time, “who’s your witch?” 

“Sam. And Cas.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. 

“When did you meet Cas and how?” Victor asks. 

“The other day. I woke up and knew I had to find something so I went after it. I didn’t know it was him I was looking for until I was in his apartment and the words were out of my mouth.” 

“And when and how did you meet Sam?” Patrick asks. 

“Really? You guys know this already. He’s my brother,” Dean scoffs.

Castiel hums softly, daring Sam’s attention to him. His lips are pursed and he was staring at Sam’s hands. Sam tightens his fist, glaring at the other witch. Castiel lifts his eyes in a lazy roll before raising a single eyebrow. Sam huffs. 

“Should I get a tape measure for the two of you?” Rowena asks breaking their staring match. Patrick sniggers. 

Sam does his best not to level the Supreme High Witch with a bitchface, but he isn’t sure he’s actually managed that. 

“Dean dear, would you mind following Victor for a moment? We have some things to discuss with Sam and Castiel,” Rowena says. 

Dean glances at the two witches, but rises from his chair and follows Victor out the door and down the hall. Sam can feel his apprehension, and it only makes him madder. 

“Now,” Rowena says, “we’ve spoken to Castiel extensively and there doesn’t seem to be any deception on his part. We’ll check Dean as a formality, but it seems we have a peculiar case on our hands here.” 

Sam snorts. “Right.” 

“Sam,” Rowena warns her gaze sharp over the rim of her glass. 

Sam exhales and folds his hands in front of him to save himself from running them through his hair. 

“Castiel here has informed us that Dean sought him out on his own. If that’s the case and there is no magical tampering here that means you two are going to have to learn to get along, whether you want to or not,” Rowena says. 

“You’re expecting me to give up my familiar? My brother? Just like that?” 

“No, not at all,” Patrick says. “Some familiars are strong enough that they can handle more than one witch at a time. It’s rare but this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen it.” 

“And how many times exactly have you seen it?” Sam asks.

“Thrice,” Patrick says. The cold look in Patrick’s eyes brokers no argument and Sam finds himself counting down from ten to calm himself. He knows he’s being possessive, but he can hardly be blamed for it. He’s heard of witches who try to steal familiars, to break the bonds they have with their witches and claim them as their own. He wouldn’t doubt that’s what’s happening here. 

“Assuming I’m not a liar,” Castiel says his voice thick and dry, “what do we do about this?” 

“Arbitration,” Rowena says. “Dean can’t spend all his time with either of you so we’ll have to work it out between the three of you.” 

“And if we don’t come to an agreement?” Sam asks. 

“You will,” Rowena says, her voice like ice, “if you want what’s best for your brother.” 

“Is that a threat?” 

Rowena rolls her eyes and sets her brandy down with a little too much force. “Why must you always be so difficult? First the Madison incident and now this?” 

Sam barely resists the urge to interject. He’d been right about Madison, even if he had been a little brazen at the time. 

“No one is threatening Dean,” Patrick says, “or you. But you know what it does to a familiar to be too far away from his witch for too long. You don’t want that, and neither do we.” 

“No, you just want me to set up a custody arrangement for my grown brother.” 

“No, we want you to act like the capable, rational, thoughtful witch we both know you are and understand that sometimes shit happens,” Rowena snaps. The air around them crackles with her electric anger, and Sam stills. 

Rowena stands, bracing her hands on the table as she speaks, “we don’t like this any better than you do, Sam. No one likes this. It’s an inconvenience, to say the least, but as I’m sure you’re well aware, we cannot deny a familiar their witch. If Dean happens to have two then he has two. You would do well to pull your head out of your ass, accept that, and try to be civil.” 

She stands up straight, smooths the wrinkles in the front of her dress and marches towards the double doors. “I’m going to see what’s taking Victor so long,” she says, walking out. 

Patrick says nothing, but the smarmy smirk on his face says more than enough. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally meant to make you guys suffer a little with a longer update time, but I didn't mean to let it get 'til fricken Thursday before I did. Woops. It was a very busy week. 
> 
> Anyway, hope y'all enjoy it!

“This tastes like ass,” Dean grumbles around the bark in his mouth. 

Max snorts. “From what I hear you’re not usually that opposed,” he says. 

“That’s different,” Dean says, wiping the drool from his mouth, “that’s fun. This sucks.” 

Sam rolls his eyes but says nothing. He’s been pacing since they got back from the council meeting. He’s barely spoken, outside of calling Max, and Dean’s really not sure if he should even try to provoke a conversation at this point. 

“Just a little longer,” Max says, staring at the boiling cauldron in front of him, “soon as this turns purple we can toss it in here.” 

“And this will give us a definitive answer?” Sam asks. 

Max sighs, “you know there’s really no such thing as definitive with magic, Sam.” 

“But we’ll have an answer?” Sam asks. 

Max huffs and stares down at the cauldron some more. “Yes.” 

Sam’s been in a mood ever since they set foot in Rowena’s house. He hasn’t said anything yet, but Dean knows he’s not happy about it. Panicking might be a better word for what Sam’s doing, actually. After Victor checked Dean’s aura for any residual magic and both Sam and Cas’s grimoires were inspected the Council decided it was in everyone’s best interest to split Dean’s time between the two witches. Sam had taken it all in silence, which wasn’t exactly a good thing. He’d called Max as soon as they got home. 

Dean already knows what the spell is going to do and it’s not going to make Sam happy in the slightest. Dean knows he’s supposed to be Cas’s. He also knows he’s supposed to be Sam’s. No magic in the world could make him forget that. 

“Where’s Alicia, by the way?” Dean asks. It’s getting too quiet and much too tense. 

“She’s off in New York with Charlie,” Max says rolling his eyes. 

“They still dancing around each other?” Dean asks. 

“Yup. Alicia keeps saying she doesn’t want to be one of ‘those witches’ whatever that means, but it’s getting to the point that I just want to lock the two of them in a room and keep them there until they talk. Or kiss. Or something. I’m really not picky at this point,” Max says. 

Dean snorts. He considers telling Max that Cas does love magic and a little boost wouldn’t hurt anything, but he quickly abandons that train of thought. Mentioning Cas right now is probably a bad idea. 

The cauldron turns purple and Dean spits the bark into it. It’s gross, but he’d rather not touch it or make Max touch it. The cauldron bubbles violently, turning black and glassy in an instant. Sam stops pacing and makes his way over to Max, hovering just behind his shoulder. 

“How long is it going to take?” Sam asks. 

“Should be anytime, now,” Max says, “usually it’s immediate.” 

Sam frowns as the liquid stills. Dean starts to fidget as the silence stretches out over several minutes and Sam continues to frown at the cauldron. Max lifts his eyes and shoots Dean a tight-lipped frown. 

“Anything?” Sam asks. 

“If there we’d at least get a name of the spell,” Max says, leaning back in the kitchen chair, “Sam -” 

Sam waves him off. “You’re sure you did the spell right?” 

“Come on,” Max scoffs. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Sam says. His eyes remain firm on the cauldron. 

Max rolls his shoulders and scoots the chair back. “You guys have coffee, right?” he asks, wandering into the kitchen. 

Neither of the Winchesters say anything. 

\----

The bond between a witch and their familiar was about as sacred as any bond could get. Not every witch had one, and those that did tend to guard them over their own lives. Sam had understood this from a young age; he’d had to. The bond was to be revered, but not every witch felt that they should abide by that. There were some who thought it was appropriate to control familiars, to bend them to their will and use them, rather than work with them. Sam had heard the horror stories of unwilling men and women, their magic so shackled and their wills so thoroughly broken that they were unwilling to leave their oppressive masters even once the dark magic that confused their intuitions was removed. His mother had always warned him that Dean would be a target of this kind of magic, not just because he was particularly gifted with magic, but because he and Sam were brothers, and that would cause more than a few witches to be suspicious or righteously indignant about what they might be doing as a unit. 

His father had been one of those witches. From a young age, Sam and Dean lived with their mother, after the marriage collapsed. Their father hadn’t been a part of their lives until Sam was approaching his teens and then vanished soon after. Sam never did find out why his sudden reappearance and disappearance had happened so fast, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. Mentioning the man had always brought pain. His mother had been John’s familiar for years, but she walked away for the sake of her sons. Even later when she remarried, to a witch no less, the bond between her and their father remained a constant ache for her. Some days were better than others, but it was always easy to see when her very soul ached for the presence of the witch she was tied to. Arthur, their step-dad, did his best. He was a good witch and a decent father, but he couldn’t fix the whimpering bond between Mary and John. She suffered the ache of separation until the day she died. 

Sam never saw what it was like for his father, but he’d seen enough of what his mother went through to know that he doesn’t want to suffer the same fate. Regardless of what the Council had said, Sam isn’t entirely convinced that Castiel wasn’t up to something insidious. He isn’t willing to lose Dean like this.

Dean tries to talk him out of his mood, but Sam’s not having it. He’s pissed off and he’s going to remain pissed off until this issue sorts itself out. He’s not nearly as volatile as Dean is when he’s mad, anyway. Maybe shorter and sharper with his words, but not explosive like Dean is. Besides, he’s not mad at Dean, anyway. Dean can learn to live with his bad mood for a few days. Gods know Sam has had to. 

The first day after the Council meeting is a disaster. Sam’s working a twelve-hour shift at the hospital again, and he can see the question in Dean’s eyes, even though he doesn’t voice it. Dean’s still home when Sam finally drags himself through the door after his shift, though, even if he doesn’t say much of anything. They spend the new moon in the graveyard, binding the new graves so more unscrupulous witches can’t use the bodies for their own ends, and afterward, Dean is beat. He’s usually tired after such a long night, but he sleeps most of the next day and half of the one after. He’s not his usual, snarky self after that, even three cups of coffee later. For once, Sam hopes he’s just worked his brother too hard. 

Castiel calls twice while Sam’s on call. He knows he should probably answer the phone, if for no other reason than to set up a meeting place - he doesn’t really want the man knowing where he lives - but he ignores it. He’s got two more days with Dean before he has to let Castiel take him away for two weeks, so he’s not exactly excited to face that. A part of him wants to tell the Council to fuck themselves and go on the run, but he knows he wouldn’t get far. Rowena has connections and it wouldn’t take long for her to notify every witch in the country that he was on the run. 

Sam tries to ignore the surge of emotion he does finally feel from Dean when days later he agrees to meet Castiel at a Gas’n’Sip so Dean can leave. Dean, of course, complains that he feels like a used pool table being traded off craigslist, but his excitement is sharp and electric, thrumming through their connection. Sam doesn’t say anything to Castiel, nor does he return the handshake offered to him. He pretends he doesn’t feel the sharp decline in Dean’s mood when he just nods Dean off. 

Sam goes home to an empty house, one that will remain that way for two whole weeks, for the first time in years. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me :)

The first thing Castiel does when Dean steps foot in the apartment is to make coffee. He doesn’t need it, he’s been a live wire for the past two weeks, but Dean looks like he hasn’t slept well in days so he figures it’s probably a good idea. Dean, for his part, makes himself at home right away, kicking his shoes off at the door and flopping down on the overstuffed couch in the living room. 

Castiel lets out a slow breath, trying to ease some of the nervous energy he’s felt building since the Council meeting and makes his way over to the couch, coffee cup in hand. 

“So, I don’t exactly have a spare bedroom but the couch is a pull-out. I can start looking into a two-bedroom but I’m going to have to save up to break my lease,” he says, setting the coffee down on the side table next to Dean. 

“That’s okay,” Dean says, “I usually sleep as a cat. Takes up less space that way. Plus, countertops are a lot more comfortable than you realize.” 

“You don’t really sleep on countertops, do you?” 

Dean hums behind his coffee cup, ignoring the question. “So what are we doing this week?” 

Cas snorts and rolls his eyes. “I could get you a cat bed if you’d rather,” he says. 

Dean practically hisses at that. “Ew. No. I don’t eat out of bowls and I don’t sleep in cat beds.” 

“But you do sleep on countertops.” 

“It’s cool and it’s comfortable,” he says, setting the cup down on the side table, sloshing some over the side. 

“Alright,” Castiel says, “that’s fine. Sleep wherever you’d like then. And to answer your question, I thought we’d take it easy this week. I have a few orders to fill so I won’t need you here for much more than siphoning a little magic now and then. You don’t have to do any heavy lifting.” 

“Orders? Like… spell orders?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, slipping his slippers off and nudging them under the coffee table. 

Dean frowns at him, before darting his eyes around the living area. “What do you mean spell orders?” 

Castiel shrugs, leaning back on the couch, “just exactly how it sounds. People place orders, they pay me, I deliver the goods.” 

“Oh my god your an Etsy witch aren’t you?” Dean whines. 

“There’s nothing wrong with using the internet as a market place, Dean. It’s the modern alternative to having god knows who come to my home so I can do the same thing. It’s efficient.” 

“You’re just out there flaunting your witch-ness.” 

“So what? We don’t burn people at the stake for it anymore.” 

“Yeah, but if the humans found out this shit was real -” 

“They won’t. They wouldn’t know real magic if it bit them in the ass - which it does, frequently. No one is in danger because I sell lemon scented bath bombs.” 

“Oh so you fake it then,” Dean says. 

“Yes and no. The bath kits and candles aren’t really magic, but I can’t just send an email telling Suzy in Hoboken that she’ll find her soulmate in six months, give or take. People don’t like to hear that kind of crap. Plus, I can charge more if I throw in fancy potpourri.” 

Dean snorts and shakes his head. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that.” 

“I’ve been told.” 

Dean stretches out, his shoulders popping as the throws his arms over the back of the couch. “Must be nice to be able to actually advertise and make money off your magic. Sam and I have to sneak around to do anything good. We’ve almost been caught a couple of times,” he says around a yawn. 

“Why’s that?” 

Dean rolls his neck, stretching his legs until his feet are halfway under the coffee table. “‘S taboo. Witches don’t like it, humans would flip out. ‘S not banned magic, but it’s close.” 

“Your brother isn’t a chaotician, is he?” 

“No, no way,” Dean laughs. 

“Good. I hate chaos magic. I had an ex-boyfriend send a particularly nasty thoughtform after me after we broke up. He said I put a sex curse on him.” 

“Did you?” 

“No, he was just bad at sex.” 

Dean snorts. His eyes fall shut and a small smile creeps across his lips. “We do have a friend though, Alicia, she does technomancy. That’s chaos magic, right?” 

Cas shrugs. “Technically, I think.” 

“She’s a good kid. Little dense, though. She and her familiar, Charlie, have been dancing around each other for ages. No matter what we say they what we say, neither makes a move. They need a nudge, or something.” He pops a single eye open, looking at Cas from the corner of his eye. 

“What?” 

Dean just raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh no. No. I don’t do that kind of thing. Not unless it’s a special circumstance.” 

“Like friends who keep doing the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ dance for six years?” 

“No, like soulmates.”

“Soulmates. Really.” 

“Yes, really. They exist. They’re not common but they do.” 

“And you can tell if people are soulmates?” 

“Of course,” Castiel says. 

Dean sits up now, leaning his elbows resting on his knees. “How's that work? Like auras?” 

“Yes and no. They’re threads, not rings of light. And they do have different colors but all are static.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow, so Castiel frowns, continuing, “soulmate threads are red. They’re tied around the ring finger; all threads of fate are. Black is for enemies, pink for companions, purple for witches and their familiars -” 

“There are threads for witches and familiars?” Dean interrupts. 

“Yes, of course. It’s a hugely significant relationship.” 

“So I have one for you and for Sam?” 

“No, you just have one but it’s split. I didn’t notice at first, but it’s there.” 

“Can you show Sam? He’s still got it in his head that I’m bewitched or something and doesn’t want to take it seriously. If you could show him it would clear this whole thing up.” 

“I can’t. You either see them or you don’t. I can’t do anything about it,” Castiel says. 

“Well have you ever looked into some kind of spell or something. Magical reveals or something?” 

“No, Dean. I’ve never thought of that. It would make my job so much easier, but I’ve never even considered showing people their threads. Thank you for your insightful revelation,” Cas says. 

Dean snorts and rolls his eyes. “Well, you don’t have to be a jackass about it.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Well, that fucking sucks. How the hell are we supposed to convince him?” Dean asks, throwing his head back against the couch, bouncing slightly. 

“I’m not sure. He’ll come around eventually -” Dean shoots him a flat look, “well he’s going to have to some day.”

“Sam’s stubborn. It takes a lot to shake him once he makes up his mind and usually he gets shaken in the wrong direction,” Dean says. 

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m stubborn, too,” Castiel says. 

“That’s just what we need,” Dean says, “three stubborn magic users. What could go wrong?” 

Castiel shakes his head. Their conversation comes to an end and a few moments later Dean is snoring softly. Castiel leaves him to it, getting up to make a couple of sandwiches for himself and for Dean, whenever he decides to wake up. 

\----

Castiel prefers to do his magic in the living room. He doesn’t like hiding it away and the breeze from the balcony doors is good for him and his work. He likes to hear the shouts of people, the cars zipping along the pavement, the occasional bird song, all things that remind him that the city is alive around him; it lets him feel connected to all of them, and it makes his magic stronger. Dean’s presence helps, too, of course. 

“You’re sure you don’t need me to… do anything?” Dean asks from the couch. He’s been fidgeting for the past half hour while Castiel has been burning candles and measuring out rose petals. 

“You’re doing exactly what I need you to be doing, Dean,” he says, dropping a handful of Orris root into a mortar. 

“I’m sitting on my ass,” Dean says. 

“Yes, and you’re doing a very good job of it.” Castiel grinds the root to powder before sprinkling it over the hot coal at the bottom of his cauldron. 

Dean huffs, rolling his neck. 

“You’re bored,” Castiel says, blowing the thick grey smoke out of his face. Yet another reason he likes to keep the doors open. “If you want you can watch TV.” 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, okay, some familiar I am. Watching TV while my witch is working on magic.” 

“I told you, Dean, you don’t have to do anything but be present. Love magic pulls from the internal, not the external. If I’m okay and you’re okay, the magic will work fine.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and Castiel shakes his head. “If you really want to help,” Castiel says, “quit being so petulant. That will affect the workings more than you sitting on your ass.” 

It takes less than fifteen minutes of silence, with Castiel continuing his work, for Dean to flick the television on. Castiel smiles to himself, though he knows Dean can feel the amusement ringing across their telepathic bond. Dean’s mood does settle, though. As he watches his hospital drama and Castiel busies himself with enchanting the petals he’ll be sending across the country for a glamor spell. Technically he’s already got it done and he doesn’t need to do anything more, but a little extra never hurt anyone. 

The next two days follow much the same pattern. Castiel works on a few spells while Dean sits in the same room, watching television. He’s unhappy, though, and Castiel decides the best course of action is to let him help measure and fetch ingredients. It helps, marginally. Castiel can still feel the uneasiness in his mind, though. It settles at night when Dean sleeps and the flow of communication between the two is unhindered by the barriers Castiel has set up. It’s not that he doesn’t want his familiar to be as close as possible, but he feels the need to keep him at arm’s length. It’s unnatural and painful, and he knows it must be at least a little part of the malaise that hangs over Dean, even if he isn’t aware of it yet. It’s just… well, Castiel knows he’s an interloper. He caught that red thread, between Sam and Dean, when they were all called into the Witch’s Council. That had certainly been an interesting surprise. What had been almost an equal shock, was seeing the other end of his own, pink thread wrapped around Sam’s finger. For one brief moment, he thought it would solve their issues. Then, of course, Sam snapped at Rowena. 

He’s not stupid. He knows that if given the choice, Dean will pick Sam. He just hopes that never has to be a choice. He’d also like it if he and Sam could get along. He knows they’re supposed to, the threads are never wrong, but he’s frustrated with the lack of progress on that front. It’s just generally aggravating, so he does what he’s used to - keep his distance and play nice. 

He just hopes they make headway sooner than later. 

\------

Sam’s in the bathtub when his phone goes off. Usually he’s a shower type of guy, but tonight he’s on edge. He can’t shake the sick feeling that’s clinging to his skin and worming it’s way through his guts. A bubble bath usually helps in times like this, so a bubble bath is what he’s doing. That is until the phone goes off. 

He ignores it at first, rolling his eyes and ducking under the water to rinse his hair. The phone goes silent by the time be pops back up, so he doesn’t worry with it. Until the text alert goes off. Twice. Then another call. By the time Sam pulls the plug and hefts himself out of the bath his phone has been going off for five minutes. The caller ID says Castiel is on the other line. 

“What?” Sam barks into the phone. 

“Sam! Gods, you need to get down here right fucking now,” Castiel shouts into the phone. He’s out of breath and panting into the phone. 

Sam’s whole body goes cold. “What is it, what’s wrong?” 

“It’s Dean. Get here. Now. He’s dying.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sam’s not sure how he got to Castiel’s apartment. He’s really not sure he even asked for directions, but he must’ve. It’s all a blur until Castiel is dragging him by the arm to the pink, bloodstained towel on the couch. 

“... and then I heard him,” Castiel says, pointing his temples, “and I found him like this and I don’t know if we need to take him to a vet or the hospital or what to do. Sam, goddammit what do we do!” Castiel is frantic, pacing around the living around and exhaling his words more than speaking them. He’s also rambling, repeating himself, tearing at his hair. 

Sam isn’t paying much attention though. He’s too busy looking over Dean’s small cat body, the blood matting his orange fur and the soft wheeze of his breath. He’s alive, likely by magic and the will of the gods, but he’s alive nonetheless. 

“No, no vets or hospitals. He’s a familiar. They wouldn’t know what to do with him,” Sam says, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater. He brushes the fur behind Dean’s ear, hoping to rouse some action out of him. Dean doesn’t respond. “You’ve got bloodwort, right?” 

“Bloodwort? I think so?” Castiel says, stopping mid-pace. 

“Good. I’m gonna need an ounce boiled into water. I don’t care how much water, but I need it in a bowl big enough to rinse a washcloth in,” Sam says. 

“Right, okay,” Castiel says, practically sprinting into the kitchen and banging pots around. 

Sam takes a deep breath, stealing himself. He’s done this kind of thing before, he can do it again. He breathes in and out, slow and steady, dropping to kneel in front of Dean. He does his best to shove aside the ache that’s starting to grow in the bond between them and focuses on the magic sizzling beneath his skin. It stings as he sets his fingers into Dean’s wet fur, doing his best not to press too hard to the broken bones and torn flesh. 

The beat of his heart starts to match Dean’s, the blood running through his veins slowing in time to that of his brother’s. It’s too low, but he pushes through it. He can split his focus, he has to if he wants to keep his brother alive. Their bodies sync up and they feel like one being, the magic making it’s slow creep through Sam and into Dean, patching busted blood vessels, rejoining bones, weaving muscle together. He’s aware of the numbness in his legs, the slow, terror-stricken thoughts that circle around Dean’s mind, the instinctive magic keeping his brother alive. It picks at Sam’s nerves like electricity, making him grit his teeth and force himself past it. He needs to stop the internal bleeding and fix the ruptured organs now. He can worry about Dean’s cuts and bones later. He refocuses his efforts and puts his magic behind the internal damage, coaxing blood back in its veins. 

He loses track of time, only stopping when he can’t keep his own body focused anymore. He falls back on his heels, sucking in deep breaths in a way that’s going to lead to a head rush. If they can keep Dean out of pain there’s a better chance he’ll make it through the night. 

Sam looks up to find Castiel standing next to him, his bottom lip bitten raw and a steaming wooden bowl in his hands. Sam leans back against the coffee table, scooting over enough so that Castiel can sit in front of Dean. 

“Wash his fur,” Sam pants, “it should help heal some of the minor cuts and keep infection risk low. Might help with pain, too.” 

Castiel says nothing, but he hits his knees fast enough to make Sam’s head spin. He doesn’t speak at all as he gets to work, wringing out cloth every time it comes back bloody. 

Sam tips his head towards the ceiling, eyes still shut. “What the fuck happened,” he says, barely above a whisper. 

“Car,” is what Castiel says in response. 

“A fucking car,” Sam responds, “you get the license?”

“I - I wasn’t present.” 

Sam lets out a dry laugh. He’s not going to argue about it right now. He’s sure as hell going to let Castiel have it later, though. “If you have chamomile, make a tea and enchant it. Put a few drops in his mouth,” he says.

Castiel grunts but continues washing off Dean’s fur. 

It’s going to be a long fucking night. 

\----

The first night is the worst. Castiel paces when he’s nervous, apparently, and it makes Sam want to scream. Every few moments he gets a flash of Castiel’s blue sweater, stained with Dean’s blood, moving left or right. Sam tries his best to ignore it until it pushes on his last nerve and he orders Castiel to either sit down or change into a different shirt. He disappears into the bedroom, only to return in pajamas. He sits down on the couch, next to Dean, his leg bouncing the whole time he strokes through the fur on Dean’s back. 

Sam makes at least three pots of coffee. Castiel doesn’t say anything about it. The night drags on in silence, sparsely punctuated by the apartment building; the elevator down the hall, the coffee pot, footsteps and heavy sighs. Sam fades in and out of awareness, doing his best to tap into his own natural magic to keep himself alert. Dean’s still breathing. He has moved or cried out at all since Sam’s been there, but he’s stable at least. Sam can feel him, his presence in their bond fuzzy but alive. He won’t be able to speak to Dean, not until Dean becomes more aware of himself and can actually think again but he knows Dean’s there. That much is good at least. He catches fleeting images from Dean’s mind, warm food, fields of sunflowers, the sleek black paint of the Impala, laughter, music. At least he’s at peace. 

Sam isn’t able to keep his eyes open after the sun comes up. 

\----

Castiel naps. He’s terrified out of his mind, but there’s nothing he can do at this point. He wants to sleep, but he keeps waking himself with a start, fearing the worst has happened while he’s been asleep. He’s been picking up soothing thoughts from Dean’s mind all night, but Sam has been a black hole for magic. If Castiel hadn’t had so much pent up from spending time away from Dean he’s sure he’d be a puddle by now. As it is, he’s wrung out so far he’s not sure he’s even really feeling it anymore. It’s a numbness that sinks into his bones, blurs the edges of his sight, and makes every moment feel like an hour. 

It’s a shame no one delivers for breakfast. He’d love some waffles or a mountain of bacon, but there’s no way he’s going to actually be able to make that. Instead, he glances at the clock, just to make sure it’s late enough in the day and calls the pizza place. It takes three different shops to actually find out that will deliver at 10:40 in the morning, but when he gets one he orders two and a side of breadsticks. At least the delivery boy doesn’t seem at all fazed by his order, or the fact that he’s still in his pajamas. 

Sam rouses when Castiel sets the pizzas down on the coffee table, scooting a box in front of Sam. 

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I just got pepperoni,” he says. 

Sam doesn’t say anything. He does, however, brush the hair out of his face and eat. 

“How’s Dean?” Castiel asks, setting the crust of a slice back into the box. 

“I’ll have to go back and heal bones,” Sam says, “make sure I caught all the organ damage and put the blood back where it’s supposed to be. Most of the bones will have to go in casts. I don’t have the power for a full healing right now.” 

“He’ll pull through, though?” Castiel asks. 

“He should. He’s strong. As long as we make sure to manage his pain he’ll be okay.” 

“It’s a good thing you’re a blood mage. That was impressive.” Castiel offers a smile. 

“Yeah, impressive,” Sam huffs. 

Castiel resists the urge to pull chunks of his own hair out. It’s a nervous habit the thought he’d outgrown but apparently not. “What can I do to help?” Castiel asks. 

Sam chews, his eyes sharp and cold where they land on Castiel’s face. “Do you really want me to answer that?” 

“Of course.” 

“You can fuck off,” Sam says, setting the pizza crust into the box. 

There’s a fury in his eyes, hot and liquid and downright frightening. It’s like staring right into a forest fire as it eats the tops of trees until there is no escape from its heat and presence. Still, Castiel holds firm. “I’m his witch, it’s my job to care for him,” he says. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam says, eyes falling on their sleeping familiar, “you did a good job so far.” 

“Excuse me! I can’t control him. If he goes out, he goes out. I had no idea this would happen!” Castiel rears up, standing full height. 

Sam stands, slow and deliberate. “You want him so bad and you let him out of your sight? You’re either arrogant as hell or incompetent.” The whole room seems to settle into an uneasy calm as if the walls themselves were holding their breaths. There are no more sounds from down the hall. 

“Fuck. You,” Castiel says, fists balled at his sides. There’s a table in between them but it doesn’t stop him from butting up as close as he can get. Static blares from the radio in the kitchen. “This isn’t my fault. Accidents happen and I will not be blamed for an accident.” 

Sam seems to puff twice as big when he breathes. He stares Castiel down, fingers flexing like he’s ready to throw a punch. “This is my brother. My familiar. My family. You’re an inconvenience and an unwanted intrusion in our lives. Once I figure out how to get rid of you, I will.” 

“Is that a threat?” Castiel hisses behind his teeth. The pressure in the room is rapidly rising, the light on the ceiling fan flickering. 

“It’s a promise,” Sam says. A light bulb bursts overhead, and they both duck covering their heads as glass and fire rain down on them. 

“Look what you fucking did!” Castiel shouts. 

“What I did? You’re the one with unstable magic!” 

“Unstable! Who the fuck do you think has been feeding both you and Dean all night?” 

A sudden shriek stops them both in their tracks. It’s not audible, not physical, but it’s definitely a cat’s yowl. Castiel can hear it now. Dean’s conscious. He’s panicking again, pain and terror ramping up as a response to the tension in the room. Wide green eyes dart back and forth between Castiel and Sam as Dean wiggles but cannot lift himself. 

“No, no,” Sam says, rushing to Dean’s side, “you’re still busted up. I didn’t have enough power to help you. You need to stay still.” Dean’s whining softly, but inside their heads, he’s sobbing. “I know, I know buddy, I’ll help you with the pain. But you gotta stay still.” 

Sam doesn’t even have to say anything and Castiel is off boiling more tea. 

\--- 

Dean finally settles after a few hours. He fades in and out of consciousness, not really communicating outside of pained whimpers and grateful sighs. It’s killing Castiel to see him like this. They may not have as strong a bond as he wants, but it’s building by the day and this-this is agony. He can only imagine what Sam must be feeling, even though it pisses him off to consider it. 

They haven’t said anything to each other since their fight, and Castiel’s grateful. He doesn’t want to fight, he just wants to crawl into the bathtub and cry. Or sleep. Or something. 

It doesn’t become an issue until late at night. Castiel ordered Chinese, not bothering to ask Sam’s opinion on the matter. Sam doesn’t seem to mind it, though. Good, because if he did Castiel would tell him where to stick those chopsticks. 

“You don’t have an air mattress, do you?” Sam asks. 

“Nope,” Castiel says, stabbing his at his Mu Shu Pork. 

“Figures,” Sam says. “Spare blankets?” 

Castiel raises and eyebrow at Sam. He does, but he’s still pissed. “Why?” 

“So I can sleep on something other than your shitty rug.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You’re a peach when you’re tired, you know that?” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t make it a practice to be nice to people who fuck up my life.” 

“Eat my ass, Sam,” Castiel says. He slurps his noodles, just to be annoying. 

Sam huffs and rolls his eyes. “You wish.” 

They eat in silence. For a while, until Dean’s presence starts whimpering in their minds again. They redo their routine of pain management until he’s settled again. 

“I need to sleep out here to keep an eye on him,” Sam says, “so I’d appreciate at least a blanket.” 

Castiel sighs. He could do that. He’s halfway into his closet, doing just that when the dumbest idea he’s probably ever had comes to mind. 

“Sam,” he says, slipping out of the bedroom, pillow-less, “can we move Dean?” 

“Why?” 

“I do have a king sized bed,” Castiel says. 

Sam frowns. “No.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“I’m not sleeping with you,” Sam says. 

“So you’d rather have my shitty rug?” 

“I’d rather not - “ Sam cuts himself off, mid-rant, too look at Dean’s fuzzy little body. He plumps his lips, chewing on the inside of them. Whatever conversation they’re obviously having seems to even out his temper, or at least redirect it. Sam clenches his fists, pounding them onto his thighs. “Fine,” he grits out, though whether it’s to Dean or Castiel, Castiel doesn’t know. “We’ll sleep in your bed.” 

Sam cradles Dean, blanket and all, in his arms as he follows Castiel to the bedroom. There’s a quiet happiness radiating off Dean as they approach and it soothes Castiel. Sam, on the other hand, is still seething. Dean gets set on the left side - Castiel’s side - while Sam shucks off his clothes. Castiel doesn’t pay much attention, or at least he tries not to, but Sam is gorgeous. He’s broad with muscles cut into his abs like they were sculpted by Italian artists. He’s also sporting an impressive bulge in his impressive red boxers. It’s really too bad he’s being such a dick. 

Sam settles into bed on the left, setting Dean on his chest before pulling the blanket up and over both of them. He doesn’t say goodnight or sleep well or fuck you or anything. Castiel rubs his temples and lays himself into bed. Maybe it will be better in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, it's better now.... kinda.....   
> :)


	7. Chapter 7

Sam sleeps like a rock and wakes in much the same manner. His body is heavy, his muscles sore all over. It takes him what could be minutes or hours to finally rouse into awareness of himself and his surrounds, at least enough to crack open his eyes. Dean sleeps on his chest, not purring but not whimpering either. His mind is still over the bond, and Sam is grateful. He’s not sure if Dean has moved or whined or stirred at all during the night, but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t. Sam would have woken. Castiel probably would have woken, too. 

And of course, that’s when Sam fully realizes where he is. He’s in Castiel’s bed, snuggled under the downy comforter, hot puffs of warm breath tickling his neck. He doesn’t even have to move or look down to know it’s Castiel. He’s not sure he could look down without dislodging Dean and headbutting Castiel, either, though, he’s not that concerned about doing the latter. He sighs, rolling his eyes as he tries to shift away without bothering Dean. Of course, that’s when Castiel whines in his sleep, flopping an arm around Sam’s stomach and pulling himself flush with Sam’s side. Sam tries to pry Castiel’s fingers away from his waist, but he presses them in tighter, his nails digging into Sam’s skin. 

“Castiel,” Sam says, trying to keep his voice neutral, “you’re crowding me.” 

Castiel mumbles but doesn’t move. 

“Castiel,” Sam tries again. 

He snorts and sniffles into Sam’s neck, his nose brushing his throat. He better not be getting snot all the place. 

“Cas,” Sam snaps. Dean’s ears twitch and his own awareness starts to raise. Castiel, on the other hand, doesn’t move an inch. 

“Dammit,” Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He pushes Castiel’s head away and Castiel groans and grumbles, slapping at Sam’s hand and hitting him in the face. 

“Ow! Fuck!” 

That wakes both Castiel and Dean. Castiel jumps up, again smacking Sam in the process and jerking the blanket away from both of them. Dean blinks, wrinkling his nose. His consciousness is on high alert, though he’s still not trying to communicate. 

“I’m up, I’m up,” Castiel says, head whipping around. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all, his eyes red-rimmed and hair sticking up in every direction but down. He sniffles, glancing down at Sam with a wary gaze. 

Sam rolls his eyes, stroking Dean’s forehead.  _ It’s alright _ , he sends to Dean,  _ go back to sleep _ . Dean doesn’t have to be told twice. He shuts his eyes and nuzzles into Sam’s chest. Well, that’s great. He’s not gonna be able to get out of his bed then. Too bad there aren’t any spells to get rid of the need to pee without actually peeing.  

“How’d you sleep, Sam?” Castiel asks with a yawn. 

“Fine,” Sam says. He usually doesn't sleep that deep, but he seems to at least have gotten enough rest to not feel like he’s going to drop at any second. 

“Good,” Castiel says, nodding. His eyes slip shut. He looks like he’s about to fall over and pass out again. 

“I take it you didn’t,” Sam says. 

Castiel hums and sways where he’s sitting. After a moment or two, the faint sound of snoring fills Sam’s ears. 

“Guess not,” Sam mutters. Castiel’s head dips forward, chin to chest, and he sleeps on. 

Well, Sam still needs to pee and that’s not going to change anytime soon. He pushes Dean down a little until the little curl of fur is sitting on Sam’s hips. Thankfully, Dean doesn’t stir. Gingerly, Sam props himself up on his elbows, raising himself until he’s sitting with Dean on his lap. Dean flexes his claws as Sam presses his fingers into Dean’s fur, checking for injuries. The internal damage is no more, but there are still a few broken ribs and Dean’s right thigh and pelvis are broken pretty badly. Sam is going to need to correct and set the bones with magic before he can actually put Dean in a cast, but it’s doable. He really should have done it the day before, with or without magic. It’s just a good thing that he can correct it now before it results in a bad limp. 

Sam moves Dean off his lap, much to Dean’s chagrin, and slips out of the bed. Dean blinks up at him, looking miserable and sleepy, a twinge of pain starting to prickle across their bond. Sam can feel it in his own hips, and he groans against it. 

“Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll get you something for that,” he says. 

Dean purrs, so soft and short that Sam almost misses it. This is a good sign. Maybe by the end of the week, Dean will be able to shift. Maybe. 

Sam takes care of business in the bathroom, splashing water across of his face and neck, doing his best to wash the grime of sleep away. He needs a shower something awful, but there hasn’t been time to think about that. He doesn’t even want to think about how he probably smells. 

He wanders into Castiel’s kitchen, setting the kettle on the stove to high and digging through the cabinets for cups. The jar of chamomile is laying out on the counter, sealed but still out. He spoons a few of the dried flowers into a glass and goes about finding the bread while he waits for the water. He might as well eat something while he waits for the water to boil, and as much as he wants something fresh and filling, he’s not willing to dig a pan out of Castiel’s over-crowded pan cabinet. He is willing, however, to pull the bread out of the pantry and the butter from the fridge so he can make himself toast. 

Sam finishes his toast before the water finishes boiling, so he dusts the crumbs off his shirt and wanders into the living area. The blinds are open and sunlight pours into the room. The view is really nice, out of the way enough that you can see the horizon from the living room, which probably makes for great sunsets. Sam’s not sure how much Castiel is paying for the place, but it’s money well spent for the view alone. There’s no breeze to rustle the sheer blue curtains that hang off the door windows. 

For the first time since he showed up, Sam takes in the room. The walls are an off-white stucco, the carpet bare and grey. The overhead ceiling fan is still spinning, but the busted light bulbs are still stuck in the sockets. The glass had been cleaned out of the carpet, at least but Castiel didn’t have any potatoes in the house and that’s the only way Sam’s ever been able to get the ends of broken bulbs out. They’re probably going to have to sit in the dark until Castiel fixes that. Good thing Sam doesn’t plan on sticking around for more than a day, at the most. 

Castiel’s working altar sits out in the middle of the living room. It’s a circular table draped in red fabric, facing the south wall and the open balcony. His cauldron is sitting on top, ashes and rose petals scattered haphazardly around it, likely from spillage more than purpose. Also sitting out for anyone to see is Castiel’s grimoire, open to an invocation to Inanna. Sam rolls his eyes and snorts. It’s bad enough to keep your altar in a common area, but it’s a whole other to keep your spell book out. That’s asking for trouble. Sam had thought that maybe Castiel was cocky, but perhaps it was just that he was really that stupid. 

Sam walks towards the altar, waving his hand over the book. There’s no hex or binding on the pages or at least no binding that will keep Sam out of it. Perhaps if he takes a look he can find what Castiel’s up to. Sam touches the book, flipping the page over. 

The parchment isn’t even real parchment, it’s just died paper. It is sewn with real thread, probably by hand if the tears in the paper and uneven stitches are anything to go by. Sam rolls his eyes. Some witches and their aesthetics. Sam’s just fine with his grimoire, which happens to be a three-ring binder. At least he can move things around and find them when he needs to. This little book is more mess than anything else. There are dates, holiday rites, spells, invocations, and reflections all jumbled up together with no rhyme or reason. How does anyone function like this? 

After twelve or so pages a string of words catches Sam’s eye:  _ Dean Winchester, purple thread  _ scribbled in lopsided scrawl. Sam tries to make out the rest of it. 

_ Finally met my familiar! Dean Winchester! He’s a cat! Has a red thread but not pink. Possibly find his soulmate? Seems to have a family so maybe not? Will ask about husband/wife.  _

_ Met a witch! His name is Sam! Didn’t get a chance to see his hands but there’s something about him. I’m drawn to him in a way I haven’t been in a very long time. Gave him my number. Will do a call spell later.  _

There’s an arrow under the paragraph on Dean pointing to the next paragraph. 

_ SAM AND DEAN RED THREAD! And purple! Didn’t know they could branch like that. Also, Sam’s pink thread leads to me. Hmmmm.  _

“What the fuck are you doing?” Castiel’s voice breaks Sam out of his puzzled reading. He’s standing in the living area, a foot away from the couch. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sam says. 

“It’s my fucking house. Why are you touching my spellbook?” 

“It’s not like you did much to prevent that,” Sam says. 

“So what!” 

“Why are you writing about Dean and me?” Sam asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Castiel’s eyes go wide as he glances between Sam and the grimoire. “None of your business.” 

“It’s about me, it’s my business.” 

“It’s my writing. Fuck off.” 

“Give me an answer,” Sam says. 

“No!” Castiel stalks up to him, lunging for the book. Sam snatches it up just as Castiel’s hands fall upon it. “I swear to all that is holy, Sam if you rip my spell book I will kill you.” 

Sam snorts. “You wish you could. Tell me why you’re writing about me and my brother and I’ll give it back.” 

Castiel swallows. His face is bright red. “I see threads of fate. I noticed yours. That’s all. Now give it back.” 

“So what’s this about pink threads?” Sam asks. He’s pissed but his voice doesn’t betray it. At least it won’t to Castiel. If this were Dean he’d know what the calm in his tone means. 

“Need to know basis. You don’t need to know.” 

“Like Hell I don’t. But I will tell you this if you think you can mess with me and hex me over to your side you’ve got another thing coming.” 

Castiel doesn’t say anything. He does, however, make a grab for the spell book. Sam holds it up over both of their heads. “You bastard, give that back,” Castiel growls. 

Sam backs up around the table, spell books still held high over his head. Castiel hasn’t touched him yet, his fists and teeth clenched tight. The ceiling fan behind them starts to spin faster, the air chilling enough to prickle Sam’s skin.

“I know you’ve been fucking with us. Now I have proof,” Sam says, “you better hope the Witches Council banishes you to a place I can’t find you.” 

“Oh, you’d love that wouldn’t you?” Castiel snarls, “you’d love it if I just disappeared. Unfortunately for you, your brother needs me so you’re stuck with me, Sam. You might love it for a week but once he sinks into a depression and can’t even get out of bed you’re going to regret that you did that to him because you can’t accept that this is your life now. Are you really willing to do that to him?” The television snaps to life, static blaring in the room around them.

Sam’s ass hits the wall, and he stops. “Don’t you threaten my brother.” 

“I’m not threatening. I’m just telling you what’s going to happen.” The ceiling fan starts wobbling, the bar that holds it to the ceiling pivoting erratically. 

“You,” Sam takes a slow breath out, his lip twitching into a sneer, “you manipulative little thief.” 

“Don’t you dare -” Castiel’s voice booms in the room but Sam cuts him off. 

“Is this because you’re lonely or are you just a sick slimy bastard all the time?” 

The glass in the window closest to the two of them cracks in the pane. “You stubborn asshole! You think I want this? It’s bad enough I have to share my goddamn familiar but it’s worse that it’s with you! You insufferable, jealous jackass! Why I had to be tied to you of all people -” 

“Well then break whatever bullshit you put on him and you’ll never have to see me again!” 

Castiel shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opens them, they’re a grey-blue, like the sea during a storm. “Tell me, Sammy, are you this possessive because he’s your familiar because he’s your brother, or because he’s your fuck buddy?” 

Sam drops the spell book to the floor and pulls back his fist. 

_ SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP!  _

Before Sam can throw his fist Dean’s voice thunders in his head. He clutches his ears as suddenly the sound and feel of Dean’s pain rights through his head like a school bell. Castiel also steps back, pressing his palms into his temples. 

“Shit,” Sam hisses. The television has shut off and the ceiling fan has slowed, but the kettle in the kitchen is whistling and the stove is sizzling as water boils over. “Fuck, we need to… the tea for Dean,” Sam says. 

Castiel nods, hands still pressed to his temples as he walks off into the kitchen. 


	8. Chapter 8

To say the atmosphere at home is tense would be the understatement of the century. Castiel isn’t just walking on eggshells, he’s walking on eggshells and tiptoeing around legos while balancing water on his head. Sam hasn’t made any attempts to start yet another fight, but he sure is glaring a lot. Castiel isn’t privy to their conversations that take place in Sam and Dean’s minds, but at least one was enough for Sam to stomp off for an hour or so. Castiel isn’t sure what he should think of that. 

Sam and Dean have only been in his apartment for four days but it feels like weeks. Sam’s been sleeping in his bed, using his shower, in his space the entire time. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if it weren’t for the tension that they’re both holding on to. Everyone is keyed-up and exhausted. Sam’s magic is waning, Castiel can feel it, but Sam’s too stubborn to even acknowledge it. Castiel on the other hand, is erratic. His magic always has been - a consequence of not having a familiar until later in his life - but with both Sam and Dean unconsciously pulling at it, it’s bubbling up faster. He needs an outlet, something the can actually spend the residual on, but with Sam being such a dick there’s no way he’d let Castiel use it for what he would actually want to use it for. 

There’s also the little matter of Castiel spilling that he knows about Sam and Dean. It’s awkward to say the least, but it’s not like he meant to. It was a heat of the moment kind of thing, and besides, it was Sam’s fault for snooping. If Sam hadn’t tried to pry into Castiel’s spell book he would’ve let Sam or Dean come to him on their own time. And he’s still not sure how to approach the reality that he and Sam are tied together, either. He’s had his whole life to imagine the person on the other end of his thread, whether they’d be a man, a woman, or something else, whether they’d be tall or short, a witch or not. He’d had years to dream up countless scenarios, from the exciting to mundane but none of them had included this level of antagonism. He was only just beginning to consider that maybe it was just the wrong time and place, that they’d have to actually have to want to make this work if it was to work. Castiel wasn’t sure Sam did, though, and he was even less sure that when he told Sam about it, he’d take it even remotely well. 

Sam’s out for another walk when Castiel decides he’s going to make dinner. Dean’s dozing in the center of his bed, dreaming about working in an office. It’s an odd dream and Castiel is more than a little put off by the flashes of images he gets - cornflower blue ties, fussing about nebulous deadlines, Sam in the worst yellow polo shirt Castiel has ever seen. It does make him wonder, though, if Sam or Dean actually has a job outside of their magic. Castiel isn’t shy about making money off his craft but after Dean’s reaction he supposes neither of them offer their talents for money. Granted, Sam’s magic doesn’t lend itself to profit-making, unless it’s for nefarious purposes. He’s definitely going to have to ask about their careers, though. If for no other reason than to actually have something to talk about. 

Castiel is staring at a pot of water when Sam walks back in. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes for water to start boiling, right? The fire is up as high as it will go, so why is it taking so long? 

Sam comes into the kitchen area, walking right up in Castiel’s space and reaching around him to take a glass from the cabinet. Castiel does not miss the way he eyes the pot of water like he’s expecting it to reveal some great secret. 

“It’s just pasta water,” Castiel says. 

Sam’s lip twitches in a tiny smirk. “Don’t you know a watch pot never boils?” He turns away, filling his glass at the faucet. 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “That’s an old wives tale. My observance of the water doesn’t change the temperature at which it boils. That’s science.” 

“Observer effect is science, too,” Sam says. He swallows down half the water in the glass in one gulp and Castiel can’t help but be a little mesmerized watching his throat work. 

“I highly doubt simply paying attention to the water is going to have any substantive effect,” Castiel says. 

“Have you ever watched a pot from beginning to end? How do you know it doesn’t change anything?” Sam asks. 

“Because that’s just asinine. Why would I stand here and wait until the water boils to prove that it would?” 

“Well, that’s exactly what you’re doing, isn’t it?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes, shifting away from the stove so his full attention is on Sam. “No. I was… I wasn’t waiting to see if it would, I was waiting for it to boil so I could put the pasta in.” 

“You cook?” Sam asks before finishing off his glass and setting it on the counter. 

“Not well. I was just tired of take-out and figured you might be, too,” Castiel says. 

Sam shrugs, “I’ve even more take out this week than I have in the past five years, so  yeah, I could go for something with fewer trans fats and gods know what else.” 

“Maybe I should’ve offered the kitchen to you, then, if you’re used to home-cooked meals.” 

“Oh, no. I don’t cook. I cut vegetables and can manage eggs but I don’t do most of the work. That’s Dean’s job,” Sam says. He stiffens instantly, as if realizing what he’s said and to who. 

“Sam -” Castiel steps away from the stove, edging into Sam’s space. “I - I’m not -” 

“Your water’s boiling,” Sam says. 

Castiel turns and Sam is out of the kitchen before he can finish his thought. The water is, in fact, boiling. 

Castiel drops two handfuls of dry spaghetti into the pot and digs a can of tuna out of the pantry. Dean hasn’t actually eaten yet, just sustaining himself on magic alone, but perhaps if he gave Dean some real food he’d recover faster.

Sam is in the bedroom, lounging on the bed and staring at his phone when Castiel pops in. He doesn’t acknowledge Castiel, but Dean’s eyes pop open. 

“I brought you some food,” Castiel says, setting the plate of mushy fish down on the covers, “figured you might like to eat.” 

Dean sniffs at the air.  _ You know, you could have just put a cheeseburger in the blender and give me that,  _ he says over the bond. 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I’m not making and blending a burger. You can have real food when you shift back,” he says. 

_ I’m injured. You should be nicer to me.  _ Dean whines. 

“I am nice,” Castiel says. 

Dean huffs and licks at the tuna, looking up at Castiel with sad, wet eyes. 

“I’m still not making you a burger,” Castiel says. 

Dean lets out a pathetic yowel. Sam rolls his eyes and snorts. “Drama queen,” Sam mutters under his breath. 

_ I nearly died. The least you two could do is make me a burger.  _

“Guess we forgot about the business of saving your life then,” Sam says. 

_ Yes, but is life really worth living if it includes canned tuna?  _

“Are you always like this?” Castiel groans. 

“Pretty much,” Sam says.

“I suppose I should be grateful that you’re back to your usual pain in the ass self, then,” Castiel says. “I’ll see if I have any canned ham for next time.” 

_ I can have real ham, you know. I’m not actually an animal.  _

“Sorry,” Castiel says. 

“How about I get you some on my way back from work? Real ham. Real chicken. Maybe some cheese if you want it,” Sam says. 

Dean purrs loudly and begins to scarf down the tuna without even attempting to keep quiet. Sam rolls his eyes. 

“You have work, Sam?” Castiel asks. 

“Yeah,” Sam says setting his phone down on the bed, “I’ve got a shift at the hospital early tomorrow. I’d take some personal time but we kinda can’t afford it.” 

“No, no, that’s fine,” Castiel says. “I just wasn’t sure… you’re a doctor?”

“Nurse,” Sam says. 

“Oh! Well, that certainly explains the calm reaction to,” Castiel waves his hands around the room, “you know.” 

Sam shrugs and reaches down to stroke Dean’s fur. 

“Right. Well… just… let me know then I’ll just -” Castiel says, gesturing to the door. 

“Right. Max should be over at seven thirty. He’s probably bringing a cat carrier, sorry about that,” Sam says to Dean.

“Wait, who the hell is Max?” 

_ Cat carrier! _

“He’s our friend. He’s going to take Dean home and watch him while I’m at work,” Sam says. 

“Excuse me? No, he’s not.” 

_ I’m not getting in any cat carriers.  _

Castiel takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after Dean on my own. He’s doing much better than he was so I think I can take care of it.” 

“That’s my point,” Sam says, “he’s doing better so he can go home now.” 

“This is his home now, too, Sam,” Castiel says. 

“You know what I mean,” Sam says. 

“You mean you want him away from me and back under your attention. Which, might I remind you, violates the terms of our agreement with the Witches Council.” 

“I think this is a special circumstance,” Sam says. 

“A special circumstance which should involve both of his witches to take care of him. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it yourself, Sam, but you’re running off fumes. Do you really think it’s a good idea to leave our injured familiar with a witch who can hardly sustain himself?”

“That’s why I called Max. He’s a witch, too.” 

“Oh, so anyone but me then?” Castiel does cross his arms this time. 

“Yes,” Sam says. 

It’s Dean who acts first, batting Sam’s hand away until he stops stroking his fur. He stands and limps across the bed, knocking the plate of mostly eaten tuna over in the process. He curls up at the foot of the bed, ears pressed flat against his head and tail up.

“Dean. Come on,” Sam says, getting up to a kneeling position. 

_ Knock it off, Sam.  _ Dean responds, this time loud enough for Castiel to hear.  _ How many times do I have to tell you that Cas is my witch, too? How many people have to tell you that?  _

“Dean, you know -” 

_ Don’t tell me what I know! I know what I know! Can’t you just give him a fucking chance?  _

“I did give him a chance and look what happened? You nearly died!” 

_ Because some jackass decided to drive on the sidewalk! That’s not Cas’s fault!  _

“But Dean, no one has two witches! There has to be something else going on here. This just doesn’t happen. I’m sorry, but I can’t believe this just happens! Something is wrong here,” Sam says. 

_ You’re starting to sound like Dad.  _

Sam sits up, ramrod straight, and for a second Castiel thinks he’s going to blow up. Instead, he lets out a slow breath, running his hands through his long hair. “Castiel, could you give us a moment, please?” 

“Uhm. Sure,” Castiel says. He walks out of the room, leaving the door shut behind him. Though there’s not sound actually coming from the room he can feel the emotion pouring out of it. There’s anger, resentment, fear, all rolling out of his bedroom in hot waves. There’s also, underneath it all, a twinge of embarrassment and recognition. 

The pasta is mush by the time Castiel gets back to it, but he’s too hungry to worry about it. He pops open a jar of pasta sauce and warms it up, leaving some out for Sam when he eventually decides to eat as well.  

\----

Max, whoever he is, never does show up to take Dean away. Whatever was said between Sam and Dean must’ve been enough to change Sam’s mind, though he’s still staring at Castiel and awful lot. He’s working now, though, which is probably a good thing. With Sam out of the house and focusing on other things, there’s at least room for everyone to breathe. Castiel has been working, too, as much as he can. It’s difficult with all that magical build up, with Dean unable to channel Castiel’s anywhere but his own injuries, and with Sam tugging at it for a boost as well. He’s already exploded one of his candles during a vision spell so even candle magic is a danger, now. Thankfully, it wasn’t a glass candle, but there are bits of wax in the carpet. 

If Sam and Dean weren’t around, Castiel would just go find a hook-up. It’s worked well enough for expelling excess magic in the past, so it might work again. He can’t even begin to imagine what Sam would say if Castiel left for the night just to get laid. Currently, he’s stuck with his hasty shower sessions with his hand, and that really doesn’t help. 

It’s after one of those shower self-love sessions that Castiel finds Dean sprawled out, naked, on the bed. That wouldn’t usually be an issue as a cat, but Dean’s in full human form, mouth open and drooling against the pillow, ass in the air for the gods and everyone else to see. 

“Well hello there,” Castiel says, poking Dean in the ribs. 

Dean rouses, grumbling as he squints up at Castiel. “‘M sleeping. Leave me alone,” he says. 

Castiel chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re human-shaped,” Castiel says, poking Dean’s arm this time. 

“Good for me,” Dean says. 

“Did you consciously shift or were you asleep?” Castiel asks. 

Dean grumbles and rolls onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Are you gonna keep asking me questions or are you gonna let me sleep?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes, dropping the towel around his waist as he digs through his drawers for something to wear. “Fine. I’ll let you rest but I want to talk to you when you’re awake enough.” 

Dean grumbles as Castiel pulls a set of lounge pants out. 

“Hey, Dean, how’re you - oh! Shit! Uh -” Sam’s voice makes Castiel jump and he spins around, lounge pants in front of his dick. 

“Sam! I just - I took a shower. Dean was -” Castiel stutters. 

Sam is standing in the doorway, face beet red, hand over his eyes. “No, yeah, it’s your bedroom. Should’ve knocked but the door was open.” 

“I’m sorry, I should’ve closed it. I didn’t even think about it,” Castiel says, shaking out the lounge pants and nearly tripping over himself as he slips them on. 

“So, Dean, you’re looking like you again,” Sam says, hand still over his eyes. 

“I always look like me,” Dean grumbles, “now would you two fuck off so I can sleep?” 

“I woke him up,” Castiel says, “he was like this when I walked in.” 

Sam nods. “You decent yet?” 

“Oh, right. Yes. Yes, you can look now.” 

Sam removes his hand but still doesn’t look at Castiel. “Right. So did you shift on your own or did you shift in your sleep?” He asks Dean. 

Dean groans and throws his arm across the bed bouncing slightly. 

“I just asked him that,” Castiel says. 

Dean sits up, pulling the comforter up and around his waist as he does. “I was sleeping, so obviously I didn’t decide to.” 

Sam sits down on the side of the bed, pinching Dean’s chin and pulling him close enough that he can look into his eyes. It’s very clinical, the way Sam attempts to hold Dean’s eyelids open to actually look at them. Dean keeps shoving his hands away. 

“I need to look at your eyes, Dean. I need to make sure you shifted okay,” Sam says.

Dean rolls his eyes in response. “‘M fine. I’d be a lot better if you’d quit poking at me.” 

Sam frowns, his brows furrowing as he jerks Dean’s head around and examines his ears. “You don’t feel weird, right? No pain anywhere?” 

“Just the giant Sam shaped pain in my ass.” 

“I’m serious, Dean.” 

“I’m fine. Starving, but fine,” Dean says. 

“I’m sure we could get you something to eat,” Castiel says, “anything you’re in the mood for?” 

“You promised me burgers,” Dean says, “double cheeseburger with bacon and curly fries from Ellen’s. Oh, and a chocolate milkshake.” 

Sam smiles, shaking his head. “Alright. I’ll get it for you. But only because you’re recovering.” 

Dean smirks. “Nah, it’s ‘cause you love me.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re lucky I do. Anyway, I’ll be back in like, thirty, okay?” Sam stands up and starts walking to the door. 

“Wait, you’re not taking Cas with you?” Dean asks. 

Sam stops, frowning. “Someone has to stay with you, Dean. You’re still not a hundred percent.” 

“I’m good enough,” Dean says, “besides you two are driving me crazy with your mother-henning.” 

“Oh, you’re one to talk about mother-henning,” Sam snorts. 

“Shuddup,” Dean says, batting his hand in the air, “seriously, though, can you both just kinda… go?” 

“Dean, are you sure?” It’s Castiel who speaks up this time, cutting Sam off just as he starts to open his mouth. “Sam’s right, you’re not completely back to normal. Shifting is a great sign, but I would feel better if one of us stayed with you.” 

“And I’d prefer if you two got the hell out of the house. When’s the last time you got outta here, Cas?” Dean asks. 

“I - uh -” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“So Castiel can go and I’ll stay,” Sam says. 

“How’s he gonna know where Ellen’s is? He’s new in town, remember?” Dean argues. 

“But what if you need something?” Sam asks. 

“Then I’ll let you know. I’ve done it before. Psychic links aren’t for nothin’ you know,” Dean says. 

Sam’s frowning when he throws a look at Castiel, but it’s much different from the ones he’s thrown over the past few days. There’s no malice there, just concern and consideration. 

Castiel licks his lips before he speaks. “Maybe we should let him stay on his own? It’s only for a while. He can call out to us if he needs us?” 

Sam blows out a long breath. His eyes meet Dean’s and Castiel isn’t sure if they’re speaking in their minds of if it’s just that they’ve known each other so long that they don’t need words, but something passes between the two of them.

“Alright. But if you need anything, anything at all, you let us know, okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dean says. 

“I’m serious,” Sam warns. 

“I know,” Dean says with a smile. 

\----

Traffic is awful. Castiel offered to drive, mostly because he wanted to get familiar with new roads first hand. Unfortunately, Dean had elected to want a burger in the middle of rush hour, so Castiel is stuck behind a Buick that only seems to be able to drive ten miles under the speed limit. 

“I wish I knew a spell to make cars get the hell out of my way,” Castiel mutters, tightening his grip on the wheel. 

Sam chuckles in the passenger seat. “I’m sure someone has a spell out there for it.” 

“Well, they should share it,” Castiel mutters. The light turns red and a horn blares. Castiel growls. He’s usually not that impatient of a driver, but there are too many cars on all sides. 

They drive in silence for a while, stopping and starting much more frequently than Castiel would prefer. Sam is watching him from the corner of his eye. He’s drumming his fingers on his thigh and it’s not exactly irritating, but it is distracting. After two more red lights, Castiel can’t take it anymore. “Sam, you’re staring,” he says. 

“Sorry,” Sam says. He glances out the window but continues drumming his fingers. 

“Look, if you’re worried about Dean -” 

“No, no. I’m not worried about Dean,” Sam says. 

“Worried about something else?” Castiel asks. 

“You need to take a right up here,” Sam says. 

Castiel flicks the blinker and lays on the horn as some jackass zips past a second before he tries to switch lanes. “Fucking dick,” Castiel mutters. 

“Can I ask you something, Castiel?” Sam asks. 

Oh, now he wants to talk. Well, that’s fantastic. Castiel is about a half a second away from rolling down his window and screaming at someone, but now Sam wants to talk. 

“Sure.” 

“What are threads of fate?” Sam asks. 

Castiel lets out a deep breath. Of course, he’d want to talk about that, here of all places. “Sam, are you sure you want to do this right now?”

“No,” Sam says, “but Dean wants me to talk to you and we’re out of the house so you’re not going to make the ceiling fan fall on us.” 

“No, but I might make the engine explode,” Castiel says. 

“I hope that ways a joke.” 

“If that makes you feel better, sure.” 

Sma leans back in his seat, folding his hands on in front of him. “Castiel. Please. I need to know.” His voice is gentle, much more gentle than he's ever heard it. 

Castiel sighs. They’re stopped at another light. “They don’t show up for everyone, but those that exist are special. They tie people together for one reason or another. Some are for enemies, some for magic, and some for love. If you’ve heard of the red thread of fate it’s basically that, except red threads are for soulmates.” 

“Oh,” Sam says. He wipes his mouth and adjusts the seat belt on his shoulder. “So, that’s how you knew about me and Dean.” 

“I don’t expect soulmates not to be intimate with each other. But I was… inappropriate with the way I referred to the two of you the other day.” 

“Do these… the threads… are they made or..?” 

“They’re something you’re born with,” Castiel says. 

“And pink means?” 

Castiel groans. “Deep compassion.” 

Sam doesn’t respond to that. 

“They’re never wrong,” Castiel says, “not in my experiences. I’ve never seen them go wrong.” 

Sam just nods. “Is there any way to see them? A spell, or something?” 

“I wish.” 

“Yeah, me, too.” 


	9. Chapter 9

“I’d bet you $500 that Rowena’s bedsheets are silk tiger print and crushed velvet,” Castiel says, sipping his chardonnay. 

They’re standing in the ballroom, staring up at a large painting of Rowena, sitting in front of what looks like an intricate looking spying spell, complete with buzzard bones, in front of the fireplace in the library. One of Rowena’s demon waiters passes by and Sam snags a mini desert off the horderve tray he carries, sticking it in his mouth. 

Sam snorts, chewing his cheesecake bite. It’s strawberry. “There’s no way I’m taking that bet,” he says before swallowing. 

Sam’s never seen Rowena’s bedroom, despite having the opportunity at least once, and he’s pretty sure she’s more of a purple silk kind of woman, but there’s no way he’s willing to lose $500 if he is wrong. 

“How long do these things usually go on?” Castiel asks. He’s been a little fidgety all night, but Sam can’t really blame him. Dean’s only been up and walking for a few days and he’s got a second-degree sprain in his left ankle, first degree in his right knee. Sam would fix it, but he’s so magically exhausted that he’s not sure he could maintain even a simple warding spell. Dean promised he’d be alright on his own, but neither Sam nor Castiel were too happy about leaving him. They had to, though. The semi-annual Witches Council meetings were mandatory. 

“Well, after everyone gets here it’ll take about thirty minutes to get everyone into one room and for Patrick to do… whatever it is Patrick does. Then it’s however long it takes to hand out the new rules,” Sam says. 

“And we all have to be here, why?” Castiel asks. 

“Rowena likes the attention,” Sam says. “You didn’t do this in… where are you from anyway?” 

“The last place I lived was Pratt, Kansas. Small town, no council. Well, there was one for Wichita but that was a drive so they just sent us letters. Before that I lived in a commune in California so there were no rules, really,” Castiel says. The two of them start walking away from the painting, towards where two of the servers are mingling. Sam’s pretty sure he spies cream puffs on one of their trays and he really wants one. 

“A commune? When? 1969?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “It was a highly self-sufficient lifestyle. We grew our own food and made our own clothes.” 

“And smoked your own weed.” 

“So what if we did?” 

Sam shrugs his shoulders and acquiesces. “So why’d you leave?” 

“Chuck, the guy who owned the land, reconciled with his ex-wife so he kicked us off the land and sold it to run a hotel in Cabo,” Castiel says. 

“Are you serious?” Sam asks. 

“Why would I make that up?” 

Sam shakes his head. 

“Well, well, well, Sam Winchester.” A voice comes from behind them, startling Sam just enough to make him spin around. There, standing behind him, is Gordon Walker. 

“Where’s your familiar?” Gordon asks, his voice like molten metal: thick and smooth but unable to hide the danger present there. 

“Hello, Gordon,” Sam says. 

Castiel has spun around, too, eyes shifting back and forth between the two of them. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Gordon says, “where’s your familiar?” 

“That’s none of your business,” Sam says. 

Gordon steps forward, edging into Sam’s space. “I’m just taking a page from your book, Sam. I seem to remember you being so concerned with the well-being of other people’s familiars, why can’t I be concerned about Dean?” 

Sam grits his teeth. “You know for a fact that was a different situation. Dean’s none of your concern.” 

“See, I seem to remember the Council telling you that Madison was none of your concern,” Gordon says. 

“What are you implying?” Sam asks. He can feel himself puffing up, standing straighter, widening his stance. 

“It’s just interesting. Usually I don’t see you two freaks without each other. Did he finally decide to be normal and not give in to your perversions?” 

“Excuse me, but who the fuck do you think you are, exactly?” It’s Castiel who speaks now, stepping forward. 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Gordon says, not even sparing a glance at Castiel, “I was talking to the leech.” 

“Funny, I don’t see any leeches around here,” Castiel says. “I just see one giant asshole who’s sticking his nose in things that are none of his business.” Castiel wedges himself in between Sam and Gordon. 

“Then you must be talking to a mirror,” Gordon says. 

Castiel shakes his head. Sam can’t see the look on his face, but he can see the flames of the candles in the chandelier flicker. Sam takes half a step backwards. 

“Look. I don’t know who you are or what your problem is, but I suggest you get lost. Sam’s not bothering anyone -” Castiel says. 

“Oh, he’s not?” Gordon interrupts, “sorry, I don’t believe that. I’ve seen the things his kind can do. Controlling people’s bodies, making folks bleed from every orifice, bending people to your will. You’re no better than a common vampire. All blood mages are dangerous and the sooner the Council figures that out the better off we’ll all be. Freaks like him don’t deserve the magic that runs in their veins. They deserve to be hunted like the monsters they are. And so do their familiars.” 

“Sam Winchester saves lives!” Castiel practically growls. “Don’t you dare presume to know anything about him.” Somewhere in the room a glass bursts and a woman shrieks. 

“Uh, Cas,” Sam puts his hand on Cas’s shoulder, but he shrugs him off. 

“Sam is a great man. He’s protective and sincere and has more compassion than I’ve seen in anyone in years. Obviously you know nothing about him because if you think he would even  _ think _ about using his power to control other people or for selfish gains you know nothing. How dare you? How dare you show up and insult him like this? How dare you even speak to him.” 

“Who the hell even are you?” Gordon asks, finally looking at Cas. “I’ve never seen you around before. How can you really know him? You don’t know what he’s done.” 

“I don’t need to know what he’s done, I know his heart.” 

“What kind of magic does he have you under?” Gordon asks. 

Cas takes a deep breath and the painting on the far wall rattles against the wall. The other witches and familiars in the room are starting to take notice of what’s happening, some glancing around to find the source of the disturbance, others staring right at Cas and Gordon. 

“You want to take this outside?” Cas asks. Sam can practically hear Cas’s teeth grind together. 

“Cas, come on,” Sam says. He takes Cas’s hand and pulls him back, shifting so that Cas is to his left and a little behind. “He’s just a dick.” 

Cas looks up at Sam, eyes wide and a little startled. “But he -” 

“It’s fine,” Sam says. 

“No it’s not! He doesn’t get to -” 

“No, it’s not fine, but I really don’t want to see you get in a fight right now. Bad timing,” Sam says. 

“Fine,” Cas sighs. He glares back at Gordon, and if he practiced any other form of magic, Sam would honestly be worried that the heat in his gaze contained a hex. “You got lucky,” Cas says, “and if I were you, I’d think about the fact that the man you view so poorly saved you from an ass-kicking today.” Cas turns and walks off, dragging Sam along by the hand. 

They wind up on the balcony just outside the ballroom, overlooking one of Rowena’s many gardens. The perfume of plumeria and jasmine rises around them in the warm night. Cas makes his way to the railing, staring out into the darkness. His jaw and eyes are set hard as he breathes deep. For a brief moment, Sam catches sight of his aura, the vibrant blood red that surrounds him like a cloud of rage. Sam’s seen Cas’s anger before. He’s been the subject of it several times, but this time it’s different. For the first time since he’s met Cas, he takes a deeper look. And the red cloud fades, bleeding away into the night, there is a softer, dark blue, wrapping around Cas. 

Sam is no stranger to auras. He doesn’t pay attention to them all the time, because so often they make him sad. So many people walk around with deep blues and greys and sometimes even black hanging over them, betraying all manner of pain. Sometimes it’s physical, radiating out from an old wound of an unknown sickness like a bruise on the soul. Those are easier to fix for Sam, especially with his magic being what it is. The more difficult things to see on a day-to-day basis, are the emotional wounds, and that’s why Sam refuses to pay attention to them. Many folks can and do radiate positivity, calm, harmony, love, but so many of them are angry and hurt and depressed, and it hurts too much to see so much hurt. 

Sam had expected to see something else when looking at Cas. He’d expected to see something murky, like a brown or muddled green, indicating deception. He’d expected to see something that would confirm his deepest fears. Instead, the prominent colors that emerge as Cas calms are a stormy blue and silky pink; the colors of a person troubled with deep loneliness yet still filled with abundant love. It steals Sam’s breath for a moment. 

“ - and I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place and I know I overstepped but I - I can’t just can’t stand bullies,” Cas says. Apparently he’d been talking for a while, if the way his voice trails off is anything to go by. Sam hadn’t noticed. He was too busy looking - really looking - at Cas for the first time. 

“Hey, Cas?” Sam says, nudging him with his shoulder. 

“Yes?” 

“Thank you. I - I don’t have a lot of people in my life and even when I did, well, the people who were willing to go to bat for me were pretty much Dean and my mom. So thank you. You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Yes, I did,” Cas says, nodding emphatically. “That Gordon guy was a dick. No one gets to choose their magic, just what they do with it. You choose to use it for healing.” 

Sam shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what he thinks. Or what anyone thinks. I’ve always been an outcast. I don’t care what anyone says or thinks.” 

“I wish they could see you for the person you really are, not as what they think you are because of your magic or relationships,” Cas says. 

“Well, I guess that’s easy for you to say. You don’t exactly know my history. I’ve made some dumb mistakes,” Sam says. 

“We all have.” 

“Yeah, but,” Sam lets out a deep breath, looking down at the reflection of the star in Rowena’s coy pond, “I made a mistake that ruined someone's life. There was this girl, Kate, who had a familiar. Or, well, it wasn’t a familiar. Madison, her name was, as a werewolf. Kate was a witch who put a lock spell on her transformation. It was a good lock spell, and so was the spell that disguised her true nature. I wasn’t convinced. Something was off about the whole thing but no one would listen to me. Madison never transformed back and forth. She was always a wolf. So I - I did some magic. I forced the lock spell off. On a full moon. Madison bit Kate, and ran.” 

“You didn’t know that was going to happen,” Cas says, squeezing Sam’s hand. 

“No, but I should’ve left it alone when everyone was telling me to leave it alone. Madison didn’t want to be what she was. She liked being with Kate and staying in wolf form. It was her only way to be a part of society without being a danger to others. I ruined her life, and Kate’s life.” 

“All you wanted was to help someone you thought was trapped. You went about it wrong, but you wanted to help.” 

“The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,” Sam says. 

Cas lets out an awful snort. Sam jerks his head up to look at him, head on.“That’s such bullshit. I’ve met lots of selfish, shitty people in my day. The road to Hell is paved with lies and betrayal and apathy. You may have fucked up but you have a good heart and I’d rather the world was full of well-intended people who grow from their fuck ups than assholes who don’t change,” Cas says. 

“Yeah, but I did the same thing to you,” Sam says. 

“No. You didn’t,” Cas says. “You were protecting your soulmate from someone who you thought was a threat. I can’t fault you for that. And I wasn’t exactly a nice guy about it, either.” 

“Well I guess we’re both a couple of dumbasses then,” Sam says. 

Cas rolls his eyes and cracks a smile. “I prefer stubborn. Less dumb. Less ass.” 

Sam shakes his head, a small laugh slipping out as he does. “You’re somethin’ else, Cas.” A swell of emotion builds up in Sam’s chest, making his heart stutter and his stomach drop. In front of him, Cas’s aura is a beautiful golden-pink, like the color of a sunrise through a field of sunflowers. Sam is completely floored by the rush of feeling he’s experiencing. His palms begin to sweat and his throat is dry. He feels like he’s going to vibrate right out of his shoes. It’s an overload of emotion he hasn’t felt since the first time he and Dean kissed. 

Oh.  _ Oh!!  _ He’s… so he’s in love with Cas. 

Sam blinks, flabbergasted at his own realization. Should he… should he say something? Should he kiss him? 

Cas frowns up at him, his brow crinkling as he squints. “Are you alright, Sam?” 

“Uhm… yeah. Yeah, I think I am,” Sam says, laughing. He jerks Cas forward, wrapping his arms around him. Cas just stays stiff, but Sam can feel his heart pumping loud and strong. 

“Are you sure?” Cas asks. 

“Yes, Cas, I’m sure. You know, this is where you hug back, right?” 

“Oh. Right.” Cas reaches around and presses his palms to Sam’s back. It’s nice. 

They stay like that for a moment, Sam just taking the moment to hold him and feel their hearts beat and eventually match rhythm. When Sam pulls away, Cas looks up at him, a question forming in his eyes. Sam licks his lips. He could kiss him right now. That could lead to some more questions, but it also might lead to a few more answers. Maybe he should ask first? Or at least state his intention? 

Something resolves in Cas’s eyes and he pulls off before Sam gets the chance. He reaches up and just as Sam begins to think they might be on the same page for once, Cas pats his cheek twice. 

“I’m always here for you, Sam. I’m glad we’re friends now,” Cas says. He withdraws and shuffles back awkwardly, nodding to himself before he walks off, disappearing off the balcony and back into the ballroom. 

Sam is stunned. 


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel isn’t ready to be alone again. His time with Dean is technically up today, and he expects that once he and Sam get back to the apartment they’ll both leave. Dean’s been able to shift back and forth for days but he’s still limping a bit and they haven’t even attempted to channel magic yet. Sam’s been staying at the apartment since Dean was injured, and it’s been… well, it’s been okay. Not great but okay. Sam has been much nicer but he’s still keeping his distance and Castiel is unsure of where they can go from here on out. They can banter back and forth, share some television, or discuss magic together but… well, perhaps Castiel was under the assumption that things would change automatically. He had hoped that once he and Sam cleared the air something would snap and that bond Castiel so desperately craves would be resolved. He had thought something might’ve passed between them that night at the Witches Council but it was so brief that Castiel isn’t even sure it was really there in the first place. 

Perhaps he’s been a fool for thinking otherwise. 

Castiel is lingering in the back of Merry Meet. He doesn’t really need anything else, certainly not  _ another _ ivory goddess statue, but it keeps him busy while Sam talks to Mildred. He knows he’s sulking, but he really doesn’t want to be alone any sooner than he has to be. Is it always going to be this way? Will he be doing this in four weeks when it’s just him and Dean? Will he be doing it in four months? For the rest of his life? 

“Excuse me, I need to get under you,” A short blonde woman in a leather jacket catches his attention, pointing at the shelf below Castiel’s waist. 

“Oh, sorry,” Castiel says, stepping out of the way. 

The woman smirks, giving him a very obvious once over as she bends down in front of him, giving him a nice view of the tattoo the peeks out of from under her low-rise jeans. It’s a devil girl pin-up with a snake wrapped around her naked body. The woman, of course, catches him looking and her smile only grows. 

She pops back up smudge stick in her hand. “I’m Meg,” she says, offering a hand. 

“Castiel,” he says, shaking it. 

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” Meg says. 

“Is that you’re way of asking if I come here often?” Castiel laughs. 

Meg shrugs and flutters her eyelashes. “Oh, honey, I don’t need a line.” 

“Oh really?” Castiel asks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the shelf on the wall. 

“Nope,” she says, slinking towards his as she talks. 

“And why’s that?” Castiel asks. 

“Mind reader,” Meg says. 

“Gods, that must be boring. I bet you get a lot of bullshit about who’s cheating on their partners and endless ‘what should I make for dinner?’,” Castiel blurts suddenly. He barely has time to chastise himself for how stupid he feels before she’s laughing at him. 

“You’re the first person to actually say that out loud. Most people just dare me to tell them what they’re thinking,” she says. 

“Well that’s a bit of an unwinnable game, isn’t it? Most people immediately think about trying to prove you wrong, which is easily guessable and therefore proves nothing. They should ask you to tell them what you’re thinking after like twenty minutes or so after they forget about it,” Castiel says. 

“I like you,” Meg says, “you’re fun.” 

“Well thank you,” Castiel says. From the corner of his eye he catches sight of Sam, who’s still in the middle of a conversation with Mildred. 

“And I think we could have a lot of fun together, Castiel. You, me, and my girlfriend over there,” Meg says pointing over her shoulder at a red-headed woman in a ‘The Devil Made Me Do It’ t-shirt. 

Castiel’s eyes bug out of his head a little as he looks back and forth between the two of them. “You and your girlfriend?” 

“Mmmhmm,” Meg says. “You could use a little fun, couldn’t you?” 

Castiel considers it for a moment. Meg is beautiful and so is her girlfriend. And he’s not attached to anyone, at least not for the next two weeks. Unrequited feelings for Sam aside, he’s a free agent. Hell, it might even been good for all that magically build up. A little release with two lovely ladies could be exactly what he needs. 

“What are your doing after this?” Meg asks. 

“I -” 

Castiel cuts himself off as Sam walks forward, frown etched into his features. “Hey, Cas, you ready to go?” 

Meg raises and eyebrow, looking Sam up and down, half in curiosity and half in what’s probably a challenge. 

“Actually I was talking to Meg here,” Castiel says. Meg smirks. 

“Oh. You mean the fake psychic,” Sam says. 

“You know damn well I’m a mind reader, Winchester,” Meg snipes. 

“Mind reader, sure. But you’re also a con artist,” Sam says. 

Meg rolls her eyes. “No one gets tarot cards read because they want answers, they get tarot cards read because they want to confirm what they already believe.” 

“It’s still a con,” Sam says. He turns to Cas, “I’m ready to go now.” 

Meg puts a hand on one of her hips and glares at Sam. “You’re a chickenshit, Winchester,” she says. 

“Good to see you again, Meg,” he says, sarcasm practically dripping from his words. He grabs Castiel by the wrist and sprints for the door, practically shoving Castiel into the car before driving off. 

“What the fuck was that?” Castiel demands. 

Sam says nothing. 

“Sam? Are you going to answer me?” Castiel asks. 

Sam shakes his head, frowning at the car in front of them. 

“Oh. Okay, I see how it is then.” Castiel crosses his arms and sinks into his seat. He fumes all the way home. 

\----

Castiel slams the door behind him as they cross the threshold into the apartment. The lights above flicker on then off then on again. 

“Are you going to tell me what the fuck that was, Sam?” Castiel demands. 

“Meg and Abaddon are bad news,” Sam says. His back is still to Castiel as he wanders around the living room.

“So that’s an excuse to drag me out of the fucking store?” 

“They’re trouble makers, Cas. They con people and use them for all they’re worth and then they drop them like a hot rock,” Sam says. He’s looking for something, apparently, but for what Castiel has no idea. 

“And?” 

“And? What do you mean and?” Sam asks. He stops behind the couch, hands pressed into the cushions on the top. 

“I mean and why do you care? It wasn’t like I was interested in starting a business with them. I was just talking.” 

Sam huffs. “Yeah. Talking.” 

“Yes, Sam, talking.” 

“So she didn’t want to fuck you?” 

The bathroom door slams all on it’s own. “Why does that matter? It’s not like it’s any of your business anyway,” Castiel says. 

“Oh it’s not? Really? It’s not my business if someone wants to fuck the guy who’s told me we’re tied by fate?” Sam rounds the couch, walking towards Castiel. 

“No! It’s not your fucking business because you haven’t made any moves. If I want to fuck half the state of Massachusetts it’s none of your business.” 

“Not made any moves? Really Cas? You’re the one who kept me at arms length when I wanted to kiss you! For someone who does love magic you sure are oblivious when it’s staring you right in the face?” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Cas snaps. “Last I knew you just wanted to be friends. When the hell did you want to kiss me?” 

“At the Council meeting! And when I first met you! And probably the whole time in between but I was too much of a stubborn jackass to admit it!” He’s yelling in Castiel’s face now and Castiel has to stand on his tiptoes to even be remotely close to his height. 

“Well if you wanted to do it so bad then why haven’t you?”

As soon as the words are out of Castiel’s mouth Sam’s hands are on either side of his face and Sam’s lips are crashing against his own. The kiss is angry, and Castiel can feel Sam’s teeth behind his lips. Castiel presses back, with his lips, his hands, his hips, shoving into Sam with all the frustration and irritation he can muster. 

Sam’s hand slips back into the back of Castiel’s hair, jerking his head backwards with a harsh tug. Castiel gasps as Sam descends on his neck, biting a line down the column of Castiel’s throat. Sam digs his fingertips into Sam’s chest, cursing the fabric under his breath. 

He whines as Sam dips his tongue beneath the collar of Castiel’s shirt but refuses to do anything but lick at his collar bones. Castiel whines and digs his nails into Sam’s shoulders. “Jackass,” he hisses. 

Sam chuckles. “I can stop if that’s what you want.” 

Castiel kicks at Sam’s shin and presses his crotch to Sam’s. They’re both definitely hard and Castiel wants nothing more than to see what Sam can do with that impressive bulge in his jeans. Sam finally lets go of Castiel’s hair and cups his ass with both hands. Castiel jumps and wraps his legs around Sam’s waist, steadying himself with Sam’s shoulders. 

The kiss again, this time with less aggression but no more finesse. Sam’s a biter, apparently, nipping at Castiel’s lips every time the break apart. Castiel responds by nipping at Sam’s tongue when he gets the chance. 

Sam spins them around, stalking towards the couch slow enough to jostle Castiel against Sam’s dick. He groans low in his throat. 

“Like that?” Sam asks, “because I can do a lot better without jeans on,” he holds Castiel tight to his crotch, grinding a filthy figure eight with his hips. 

“Sam, I swear on all that is holy, if you don’t put that dick to work I will end you,” Castiel snarls. 

Sam slides his hands back, unhooking Castiel’s legs from around him before letting go completely. Castiel bounces as he lands on the couch, his legs falling open. Sam smirks and takes a step back, hands on his belt buckle. His eyes twinkle with unbridled mischief as he unhooks his belt and doesn’t even bother slipping it out of the loops. 

Castiel hopes he looks half like the wanton creature he feels. His whole body is one fire with want, down to the souls of his feet. He bucks his hips in anticipation, craving friction. Sam smirks and pops the button of his jeans. Castiel licks his lips. Sam peels down the zipper and shoves his jeans and underwear down his legs. 

“Fuck. Yes,” Castiel says, staring at Sam’s cock. He’s definitely proportional. 

“You got a size kink, Cas?” Sam asks. 

“Only if you know what to do with it,” Castiel says.

Sam chuckles and shucks off his shirt. 

Castiel, suddenly realizing that he’s a little overdressed for this party, scrambles to throw his shirt off and pull his jeans down. It’s awkward, in this half-reclining position, and Sam quickly gets impatient. He jerks Castiel further down on the couch pulling his jeans and underwear away as he does. 

Sam straddles Castiel’s hips lining their hips up. He gives a few experimental thrusts, to work out the angle before he really starts rocking his hips. One the four or so thrust he’s pressing Castiel into the couch, grinding his dick into Castiel’s soft body. Castiel can’t help himself; he moans long and high, like a cat in heat. 

Sam chuckles, not letting up. He’s biting his lip just a little, looking down at Castiel like the smug bastard he is. “What do you think, Cas? Do I know how to use it?” 

Castiel groans. The pressure on his own cock is marvelous, and the silky feel of Sam’s dick brushing against it is driving him mad. “I dunno,” Castiel says, trying to hide how breathless he already is, “I think you’re gonna need to try a little harder.” 

“Oh, harder? You want it harder?” Sam swoops his hips harder, leaving a sticky trail across Castiel’s belly. 

Castiel digs his nails into Sam’s forearms. He wants to scream and wail and mark Sam’s skin with angry welts that will last for days. And it hasn’t even been five minutes! 

“You just wait,” Sam says, “this is nothin’. You just wait until I have you ass stretched out around my cock.” 

Castiel groans. His ass is already tingling at the prospect. 

Sam stops for a second, adjusting Castiel on the couch so that one of his legs is bent around Sam’s waist. Sam then takes them both in hand, slicking them with their combined pre-come and continues thrusting as he strokes them. Castiel throws his head back as Sam’s thumb circles the head of his cock. 

“You like that, Cas?” 

Castiel nods his head. 

“You gonna come for me? Huh, Cas? You gonna come?” 

For an absurd second, Castiel realizes that Sam has been calling him by his nickname the whole time. He’s not sure how long Sam’s actually been doing that, but at this point it doesn’t matter. He shudders all the same, biting into the flesh of Sam’s upper arm to keep himself from voicing the sappy thoughts the realization pulls from him. 

Instead, he just moans, clinging to Sam with his teeth and nails, trying to meet Sam’s thrusts with his own. His thighs tingle and his whole body burns. 

“Fuck yeah, Cas,” Sam groans. His eyes are screwed shut and he’s biting his lip, chasing their combined bliss. He’s so hot like this. He’s so hot and good and he’s finally Cas’s. 

Cas comes with a gutter, unintelligible mess of half-formed words. Sam follows him right after with a grunt. 

It takes them both a moment to catch their breaths. After they do, all they can do is laugh. 

“We could've been doing this the whole time, you know?” Castiel pants. 

Sam shakes his head. “We should’ve been.” 

Sam peels himself off of Castiel and offers a hand so he can get off the couch. His lower back is definitely going to hurt in later, but it’s definitely worth it. 

Castiel is just about to make a comment about taking a shower when he notices the bedroom door creak open and Dean peek out of the frame. He catches sight of them instantly. 

“Hey, assholes,” Dean shouts. 

Castiel and Sam both start to try to explain, but Dean just blows past them. “Next time you two decide to get it on let me know first. I could’ve used the tissues.” 

“Wait, did you just -” Sam starts to say. 

“Psychic bonds, asshole. I feel everything you do.” 

“Oh,” Castiel mummers. “Wait do you feel it every time?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes. So quick jerking it during your four o’clock shower, okay?” 

He walks out, damp spot on the front of his jeans, and stomps into the bathroom. 

Sam doubles over laughing as the door slams. Castiel can’t help but do the same. 

\----

Sam sleeps like a rock and wakes much the same, these days. It’s a pain in the ass to get out of bed, especially for early shifts at the hospital. The only reason he’s awake now is that the sound of rain on the tin roof above startled him awake. 

Today, though, he’s got the day off, so there’s no need to move. It’s a good thing, too, because Dean is curled up on his chest, sleeping deeply, and Castiel is wrapped around him like an octopus. They’re both snoring softly, dreaming peacefully in the early morning. Sam strokes Dean’s fur, then Castiel’s arm with his free hand. He snuggles deeper into his bed - the bed the three of them share in the house they share, and lets out a soft sigh. Castiel sniffles into his chest, whining as he curls up closer. Sam tugs the blanket up higher of the three of them, and let’s the rain soothe him into a peaceful sleep. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, I can't believe we're actually at the end!  
> This has been a long, hard road but I'm so grateful to have taken part in this project. Huge thanks to dragonwithatale and Tori for being total badasses and helping me keep this on track. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it!


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